Fatal Impressions
by TakingAChanceOnJelly
Summary: What started out as a weekend away turns into a nightmare for Grissom. Sometimes what seems to be the truth, turns out to be something different. Graphic violence and adult themes. Story by JellybeanChiChi and MSCSIFANGSR. Story is now COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Fatal Impressions

By: MSCSIFANGSR (Chauncey) and JellybeanChiChi (Jean)

Special thanks to CSIGeekFan (Margaret) for the beta.

Disclaimers: We own nothing.

A/N: Stormy travel is ahead. This story will contain graphic violence. M for a reason. A bit of AU, but follows canon up to middle of season 5.

* * *

Chapter One

* * *

Gil Grissom pulled into a parking space in the garage of Buffalo Bill's Resort and Casino. He had driven 40 or so miles from Las Vegas to Primm, Nevada on that beautiful bright Thursday morning in spring 2005. The weatherman had predicted an unseasonably hot day in the desert, but then that wasn't anything new. The man had used the term "scorcher" and Grissom had no reason to disagree with him as the temperature when he left the lab at 8 a.m. had been bordering 90 degrees.

The closing strains of 'Why don't you love me like you used to do?' by Hank Williams Sr. automatically halted when he turned off the ignition of his Mercedes.

His proclivity for country music would have surprised many of his co-workers. While he preferred classical and classic rock, country held a special place in his heart. He remembered with fondness his parents dancing to the latest records coming out Nashville and Memphis when he'd been a boy. It had been a happy time in his life, before deafness and death gripped the Grissom household. Grissom preferred the old-time country music of the 1950s and early 1960s when he decompressed from work. The new country music held no fascination or his interest.

Thoughts of his brunette co-worker flitted through his brain as the song had played, but he didn't want thoughts of her to ruin his good time. Grissom wished he could have a good time with her, allowing her to share with him some of their away from work time. But he wasn't sure if she would welcome his advances anymore. He knew as much as he wanted her, the risks of a romantic relationship were too great for the two of them professionally.

He was running late and hoped he wasn't too late. His buddy, Woody, had invited him to share the experience of a roller coaster marathon on "The Desperado," which was one of the world's tallest roller coasters. Grissom hurriedly looked at his watch and saw he had about 15 minutes to sign in and begin the marathon.

When he opened the car door to get out, he noticed his briefcase was on the floorboard of the passenger side. He thought it best to put it into the trunk, so noone would be tempted to break into his car while he was in the middle of the marathon. He leaned down to get the black case filled with work notes, with his left leg sticking out the still opened door.

As he came back into a full sitting position, something hard was sticking in his chest, right above his heart. He looked down and was amazed to see the barrel of a gun, which he presumed to be a .38. It was seemingly attached to his chest, although slightly confused, the barrel dug harder into Grissom's chest.

Grissom's ordinarily blue eyes enlarged and darkened to a shade almost black as they followed the barrel up to the large hand of a Caucasian male. He then continued up the length of an arm, covered in a light blue denim long sleeved shirt, which then disappeared into the darkness of the parking garage. He could tell the person standing was of a slighter build than he, but the gun kind of evened out the playing field.

Then there was a voice, muffled, "Get out of the car."

For a moment, Grissom wondered why the mugger didn't demand his wallet, but his thoughts went out the window. The assailant brought the gun away from Grissom's chest and brought pistol butt down along the left side of his face. Grissom couldn't quite wrap his mind around the fact that his face was bleeding, because of the unbelievable pain.

"Get out of the car, ya fucking bastard!"

His left arm was being jerked by his assailant, and in his daze Grissom followed without thought. As his head cleared the door, the butt of the gun came forcibly in contact with the top of his head. The sound of the gun coming into contact with his skull was a sickening crunch. Grissom groaned out loud in pain.

Grissom immediately reached up with his hands to protect himself. While he protected his head, an excruciating pain ran through all his digits and wrist. A resounding crack punctuated Grissom's awareness of a broken wrist. Instinctively, Grissom tried to pull away and hunched down. The attacker shifted with his victim and forced the butt of the pistol down hard upon Grissom's shoulder.

The sounds of their battle filled the enclosed parking garage. The sounds of rubber soles upon the cement floor mixed with the pounding sound of fists against flesh and metal against bone. The pistol whipping abated for a moment as Grissom attempted to stop the attack. With his head no longer a target, he pulled his left hand down and began punching the stomach and chest of his attacker. But the man seemed unfazed. The attacker took his own leg to swipe the back of Grissom's legs. Unsteady and dazed, the strong kick forced Grissom to fall forward to his knees.

After Grissom hit the hard concrete, he curled into a fetal position. The attacker started kicking him in the lower back. Grissom attempted to look for an escape, but blood seeped from on top of his head and clouded his vision. He rolled to his left in a blind effort, but his attacker slammed his leg down to stop Grissom's movements. Grissom kicked upward with his foot with all his might and knew he'd made contact with the man's genitals. The man staggered for a moment and fell to the ground.

Grissom took a long deep breath, but felt the man's agonized movements somewhere close to him. He tried at access his own injuries: somewhere on top of his head was a bleeding laceration, a shattered wrist, at least three broken fingers, he had counted the number of times the gun made contact with his body and the number 17 seemed reasonable to him. Blood flowed freely down his face and he looked down at his formerly light blue polo shirt which easily had 2 pints of blood splattered across it. His back was hurting, but his head ached in a way it never had before.

Suddenly, his attacker scrambled to his knees and Grissom saw the gun poised above his head. Then the pistol slammed into the back of his head. A vision of Sara flitted through his brain and he called her name, breathlessly as he lost consciousness.

Grissom's attacker left the unconscious body on the concrete beside the blue Mercedes. His gait belayed a bit pain, but the man reached the unremarkable white van, climbed in, and drove to the spot next to Grissom.

The attacker dragged the body of the larger man to the back of the van. Then the man opened the back doors to the van and pushed the button for the dolley lift. When the lift hit the ground, he rolled the body of the famed entomologist onto it and watched as it disappeared into the bowels of the van.

He then walked to the driver's side of the van, got in and drove off; all of this without witnesses. And Jacob McIntyre felt blessed no one had seen his kidnapping of Gil Grissom, because all of his hard work would go for nothing if someone had seen them at this stage of his plan. He had waited 18 years to exact his revenge upon Gil Grissom and he smiled into his rearview mirror as his hostage rolled across the metal floor of the van.

He reached the interstate without attracting any attention, turned north on I-15 back to Vegas and took Grissom home.

TBC

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A/N: This story was conceived backwards. I thought of an ending and Chauncey and I composed this story starting from that ending. Health issues sidelined Chauncey, but she wanted the story to be complete and insisted it be posted. So, this is for you, Chauncey.

Many thanks to our beta, CSIGeekFan, and also to ELM22 for her support.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: We own nothing related to CSI.

A/N: The following contains graphic descriptions of torture. Please read with caution.

* * *

Chapter Two

* * *

Jacob McIntyre relished moments of serendipity. Perhaps it was the reward for his patience and planning. The thought put a smile on his face as he drove toward Grissom's townhouse. Despite the struggle in the parking lot, things were running smoothly. He took advantage of Grissom's planned getaway, captured his prey and now the games would truly begin.

Using the automatic garage door opener from Grissom's Mercedes, McIntyre pulled the van in and closed the door behind him. After getting out and stretching, he opened the back of the van and grabbed Grissom's house keys from the unconscious man's pockets. Grissom could stay put while McIntyre prepared the townhouse. The heat of the day would make the garage brutal. McIntyre could have left the back door to the van open for some ventilation, but was in no mood to provide Grissom any respite.

And a little sweat wouldn't kill the guy. Not yet, anyway.

He emptied the van of the tools, items and bags he needed. After placing a small rectangular object close to Grissom's head, he slammed the door to the back of the van shut and went inside the townhouse, carrying the tote full of goodies with him. McIntyre had taken more than a year to deliberate and execute his plan. His notions of revenge evolved to become an elaborate scheme that would prove to harm Grissom physically, mentally, emotionally and possibly lead Grissom to become stripped of his sanity, livelihood and, if McIntyre played his cards right, perhaps his life.

Now that he reached a point of no return, McIntyre felt inspired not only by what could happen to Grissom but by the vision of Dale, the woman he lost 18 years ago at the hands of Gil Grissom.

Starting this Thursday morning, Gil Grissom would finally pay for his transgressions.

* * *

When he woke up, Grissom felt his clothes were soaked to the bone. The first thing he consciously remembered doing was putting his right hand to his head, and while the pain from his fingers to the top of his head caused him to scream in agony, but his parched mouth wouldn't let him utter a sound. Instead, labored hisses escaped from his throat. He could see his right hand was swollen and painful to bend and his own blood covered his upper body. As he felt to top of his skull, he could make out a long laceration, which were still bleeding somewhat. He put his left hand to the back of his head and groaned when he noticed a laceration bleeding there as well.

After several minutes he decided to try to sit in an upright position, still unaware where he was or how much time had passed. Wave after wave of nausea hit Grissom as he felt pain shoot throughout his back and torso. Soon he was covered in his own vomit. It took several tries before he was able to sit up. The stale air in the van provoked a coughing fit and dry heaves that left Grissom pained and weak.

Lying back down on the metal floor of the van, Grissom tried to recall what happened: A Caucasian male attacked him in the garage at Buffalo Bill's Resort and Casino in Primm. He was subdued, knocked unconscious and perhaps left for dead in this van. But he wasn't bound. That was a good, wasn't it?

Grissom needed to get out of van. He got on his battered hands and knees, and took a deep breath as every movement caused more pain. He needed a moment so he opened and closed his eyes while hunched down on his hands and knees. He could feel and see beads of sweat combined with blood dripping off his head. The heat was stifling, and if anything, he needed to get out of the van to breathe. He crawled to the door and opened it. He was surprised to find it he was indoors, but more surprised when he saw a shelf in the background with very familiar looking knick-knacks.

He gingerly exited the van and turned towards his front door. Before he could take a step, a masked man, who he assumed to be his assailant came from behind the van and stopped in front of him. Grissom looked startled, and it took McIntyre only a few seconds to subdue the injured man. He grabbed Grissom, threw him to the floor and straddled him.

"Baby monitors... they're not just for worried parents anymore, that's fer sure," McIntyre said with a laugh. "I've been waiting quite a few hours for you to stir, Grissom. But I heard you get up a minute ago. You've been out for a while. Left me plenty of time to prepare for what's next."

McIntyre got up and lifted off his ski mask to wipe the sweat off his brow. He knew Grissom would not be able to turn and see his face. "Phew. It is fucking hot in here, eh? You hot, Grissom?" McIntyre said, punctuating his question with a kick to the ribs.

Grissom coughed and tried to get out some words, but his voice was non-existent from being in the stifling van for eight hours. McIntyre stooped down, grabbed Grissom by the arms, dragged him up and slammed him against the van. Dazed, Grissom turned to face his captor, but instead saw the barrel of a .38.

"Strip, ya fucking bastard."

Without much choice, Grissom complied. Taking off his bloody polo proved tough to pull over his abused head, the pain almost unmanageable and when he took a few seconds too long, McIntyre punched him hard in the chest, then grabbed the shirt and ripped it off Grissom's body. Grissom lost his footing and fell hard on the garage floor. He managed to wobble into a semi-standing position and immediately toed off his shoes, knowing he would have to remove his pants. He did so as quickly as possible, but when he stopped, McIntyre removed the belt from Grissom's pants and swiftly swung the belt buckle across Grissom's calf.

His torso. His back. His arms. His legs, again. The attacker managed a skillful lick across his tortured right hand. The pain caused Grissom to fall again.

"I said strip, ya fucking bastard!" McIntyre screamed into the almost unconscious victim's ear.

Grissom slowly got his bearings and stood, cringing because he knew a belt lashing could come at any moment. Without dignity, he took off his boxers. Grissom stood before his attacker both literally and figuratively stripped. He didn't have time to cover himself with his hands as his attacker grabbed them and placed handcuffs on his wrists. Grissom left out a hoarse scream when the cuff was closed on his right wrist.

"Now, we're going to go inside," McIntyre said as used the belt to pelt Grissom's back and move him forward.

Grissom knew his captor had a great advantage over him for more than one reason. He possessed weapons. The man held all the cards, while Grissom was hurt, stripped and handcuffed.

But more importantly, he knew Grissom, while Grissom had no idea who he was.

* * *

Once inside the townhouse, Grissom silently processed his surroundings, a sickening feeling came over him when he realized he was in his own home. Things weren't exactly as he'd left them that morning. The last thing he remembered doing before he left in a rush was emptying the dishwasher. And he didn't even finish that task; some clean items in the machine would have to wait till he returned from his marathon to be put away.

He wondered now if he would ever get that opportunity.

While there were no sweeping changes, some things disturbed Grissom, most especially a steel-framed chair in the middle of the room directly in front of the television and an exposed outlet on the wall nearest the chair. Plastic sheeting also covered large portions of Grissom's living room area, including under the steel-framed chair.

McIntyre, who was still wore his black ski mask, stopped Grissom in front of the chair. "I made this myself with you in mind, there, Grissom," he said of the chair. McIntyre had joined together 11 pre-cut pieces of metal to fashion the chair frame. He then took a rebar and laid it horizontally from the posts that made the back and seat of the chair to support Grissom's weight. "Take a seat, there," McIntyre said to Grissom as he pushed him upon the seat of the chair.

McIntyre took a roll of duct tape off the table, and tightly taped Grissom's ankles to the chair legs. He taped Grissom's torso to the chair, wrapping the tape three times and then uncuffed Grissom's hands and bound his left wrist to the arm rest of the chair.

"I betcha need a drink, there, eh, Grissom?" McIntyre said, voice laced with sarcasm. He left for the kitchen and return with a bottle of water. He opened it in front of Grissom and poured half of it onto Grissom's head, making the injured man scream in pain as cold water hit the laceration on his head. McIntyre then thrust the bottle in Grissom's face. "Drink it now, because in 10 seconds I take it away."

Grissom drank the fluid greedily, his grip compromised by the fact his fingers couldn't quite wrap around the bottle because of the three broken fingers on that hand. He'd almost swallowed every drop of the liquid before McIntyre snatched the bottle out of his hand. He then duct taped Grissom's right wrist to the chair.

"Who are you?" Grissom wasted no time once he found his voice again. "What do you want from me?"

McIntyre said nothing and smiled as he smacked Grissom so hard across his face that the chair tipped slightly on one side. Then he stood next to Grissom hitting him hard across the cheek before Grissom had time react. He crept next to his captive's right ear and spoke in a rough whisper, "Don't'cha be thinking I'm the one to be answerin' questions here, Grissom. You understand?"

Grissom didn't move or say a word. He could tell this would be a game of control and he couldn't give it all up at once. Instead, his attention focused on the exposed wall outlet. A silver wire snaked out of the socket and connected to some sort of control box, which had four sets of electrodes snaking out of it. Grissom could only imagine what his captor had in store for him.

"Comfy chair there, eh Grissom?" McIntyre said as he fiddled with the tape on Grissom's right wrist. "Say what you will about FBI techniques, or the KGB, or Chinese water torture..." McIntyre checked the tightness of Grissom's bonds before continuing and had him extend out his fingers, rather than making a fist on his right hand. It was an action that made Grissom flinch. "... but for me... I'm more fond of what our neighbors to the south can accomplish in the way of glorious torture. And make no mistake there, I am here to torture you."

McIntyre continued to keep a hold on Grissom's right hand. "When I say 'the south' I don't exactly mean the guerrillas of Central America. I mean, fer sure, those boys did some things that were rather ruthless. Even some things that were a little primitive."

McIntyre retrieved a pair of pliers from his back pocket, took hold of Grissom's index finger and pulled off the fingernail. The sound of the nail ripping from Grissom's digit was drowned by his scream. Without fanfare, McIntyre repeated the same action on Grissom's middle finger. The vomit streaming from Grissom's mouth dribbled down his bare chest. After a minute of excruciating pain, McIntyre placed the pliers on the tip of Grissom's pinkie. His body instinctively tensed and his breathing became labored.

"You see that there, Grissom?" McIntyre asked with a laugh. "I didn't do anything but place the pliers on your fingertip and your mind told your body to prepare for the pain. And all from a simple torture technique."

A quick clamp of the pliers and a pull, and Grissom's pinkie nail was gone. Blood dripped from Grissom's hand and sweat and tears fell from his face. McIntyre took a step back, put the pliers back into his pocket and crossed his hands in front of his chest.

"Now, if I was to ask you for information there, Grissom, I'd betcha'd be thinking about giving it if I took those pliers out of my pocket."

"Yes," Grissom said, his face contorted in pain, "What do you want me to tell you?"

McIntyre shrugged his shoulders and chuckled. "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. No sir. I know everything I need to know about you."

McIntyre walked behind the chair. Grissom attempted to turn his head in either direction to see what his captor was doing, but McIntyre turned around to view the opposite wall as he stood directly behind the chair. What Grissom couldn't see was McIntyre had lifted up his mask to let his face breathe and was fiddling with the control box connected to the wires coming out of the wall outlet.

Satisfied with his efforts, McIntyre pulled down his mask and walked back in the line of Grissom's sight with the box and its electrodes. He set the box at Grissom's feet, then went to the kitchen to retrieve his laptop and a folding table. He set up the table in front of Grissom, plugged in the laptop to a working plug, placed it on the table and turned it on. He picked up the control box off the floor and placed it on the table.

"Do you know about the techniques they used in South America? Chile and Argentina? They have some interesting techniques, that's fer sure. That's where I got the idea about this chair," McIntyre said as he patted the chair. "In the late 1970s, government regimes in both those countries had several different devices they used on political prisoners, like the _parilla_."

"The barbecue?"

"Impressive, there Grissom. What they would do is put the prisoners in the device, which was usually a bed frame instead of a chair, but for our purposes, a chair is more effective. Then they would...," McIntyre continued as he placed several plastic electrodes on the right and left side of the chest and one of his bare thighs and held the last one in his hand, "... apply electrodes to sensitive areas of the body, including..." McIntyre applied the last electrode, "... the genitals."

Grissom's body instinctively attempted to back away from the man as he applied the gel covered electrode to his penis, but the chair prevented his movement.

McIntyre then turned his attention to the 17-inch screen of the laptop, and opened up the appropriate document, which flashed graphic photos of crime victims, alive and dead.

Photos Grissom recognized.

Every 10 seconds a new photo flashed. Grissom mentally catalogued what he saw — some were from his time as a coroner in Los Angeles, others were from his time in Minnesota and some from cases in Vegas. "These are crime scene photos... where did you..."

With a click of a button, Grissom's mind froze while he felt he was set on fire. The savage tingling from the voltage made his body spasm in tightness. Every muscle in his chest, leg and genitals screamed in agony.

McIntyre sent an electrical charge through the device that lasted 5 seconds, but the effects on the already severely injured man were fascinating him. With the device he could manipulate the force of the charge and its timing.

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH, YA BASTARD!" McIntyre screamed. "KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN AND DON'T TAKE YOUR EYES OFF THE SCREEN!"

Grissom could only comply. The photos become increasingly more graphic, and he noticed the victims were now exclusively children. The broken, battered bodies of innocent children. Grissom attempted to swallow, but was unable because of the effects from his earlier mild electrocution. The images started moving across the screen at a faster rate. His head began to spin as each photo came into his sights.

And then... the fire in his chest and genitals, again.

The pattern continued. Photos flashed before Grissom's eyes of what appeared to be screen shots of kiddie porn and women being raped and beaten.

And then... fire ignited through out his body.

Grissom didn't know how much longer he could stand this.

TBC

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A/N: Thank you for the reviews. One reviewer mentioned she was surprised Chauncey and I wrote a story of this nature. Trust me. It surprised the hell out of us too. But we do hope it keeps your interest. Take care.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: We don't own CSI, although we both wish we did.

A/N: Caution contains descriptions of graphic violence and character death. Reader discretion is advised. Bear with us: there is light at the end of the tunnel.

* * *

Chapter 3

* * *

With his ski mask removed, Jacob McIntyre continued to stare at Grissom. He did not resemble the man he first saw some 18 years ago. Or the man he had watched covertly for the past year. Or even the man he'd kidnapped from his car the previous morning.

Grissom's head hung to his chest, the wounds from the pistol whipping oozed a yellow exudate; blood mingled with his facial hairs; and underneath the electrodes interspaced over his body, were dark blackened areas. His eyes were closed, yet his body jerked in pain, especially in the hands that barely moved from the previous breaks and the forceful removal of the fingernails on the right hand. Everything appeared to be going according to his plans.

McIntyre looked at his watch. He captured Grissom at a little before 9 a.m. Thursday. It was now the wee hours of Friday morning. He just completed a third session of photos/shock therapy an hour ago. He made Grissom look at photos and he had provided electrical shocks at frequent intervals.

After two hours of sadistic treatment, McIntyre would then wait till Grissom fell asleep or passed out before stopping the pattern. It was not so much to give Grissom respite, as to give McIntyre a chance to get a catnap and after waking he would juice up the electricity and wake Grissom with a slight charge. He never told Grissom how long he stayed awake or how long he slept.

It was now 4 a.m. Jacob McIntyre put his hand through his hair. He wanted a few more hours of sleep in the large, king-sized bed upstairs, then maybe some coffee, toast, bacon and eggs. He would give Grissom a slice of bread soaked with water, maybe.

* * *

A quick, earth-shattering, spine-tingling 3-second shock roused Grissom. He stared straight ahead expecting to see familiar images that had been implanted into his brain, but was instead greeted with his captor clad in his black ski mask leaning on the table in front of the laptop, which was turned away from Grissom.

"Guess what, there, Grissom? It's time for something a little different," McIntyre as he moved to Grissom's side to reveal the laptop once more. "I want you to provide audio for the images. I'm going to show you an image, there, and you need to tell me everything you can about the victim, crime and case. And if you don't give me a good answer, well, I betcha know what will happen then, don't'cha." McIntyre's pulled off the guffaw with perfect aplomb as his looked down upon the man he truly despised.

Grissom focused on the voice of his captor, the cadence and phrases were familiar to an area of the United States but not of a particular person. He tried to place it, but he couldn't dwell on it, because if spent too much time concentrating on the man's vocal tones, he would receive punishment for not paying attention to him. And he didn't want that. He nodded and McIntyre started a program on the computer. He then turned on the large screen TV in front of Grissom. The computer program was now mirrored on the large screen.

An image came across it: A young woman beaten into a pulp. She was wearing a down jacket, but nothing else but red heels. Grissom thought hard and as quickly as he could. "I think .... she ... was a victim... a case from Minnesota."

"Hey there, bastard, that's all you've got? I'm thinking of giving you a little more shock treatment the next time."

"Please! No," Grissom pleaded. "I'm thinking. It was a long time ago."

"Yeah, it was," McIntyre answered coldly. A chill ran through Grissom hearing those three words.

"She was a college student from rural, northwest Minnesota who had visited friends in Minneapolis. Students at Walden University, I think. She was found beaten to a pulp behind a fast food restaurant. There was presence of semen on her body and there was evidence she had been raped and sodomized with an object..." Grissom took a deep breath. This was not an easy case to investigate, and it was not easy to revisit almost two decades later. "We found a broken, wooden baseball bat about 40 yards away and a soda bottle with her blood in a trash can near the body."

Grissom stopped talking and was surprised his captor said and did nothing. Grissom counted off the long seconds in his head.. 340, 341, 342...before the man spoke again.

"So, did the police or you ever find out who raped her? Who killed her?" McIntyre asked with his arms crossed.

"I... ah... we never closed the case," Grissom said, with sadness. It was a hard case.

"You don't say?" McIntyre's said with mock concern. "So you let her down, eh? Her family down. Good job there, Mr. Grissom. Well done."

McIntyre looked straight into Grissom's eyes as he smacked his hand down upon the button on the shock controller. The jolt tore through Grissom's body for 5 seconds and left him breathless afterwards. The single piece of bread, although not thoroughly chewed, that he had been given earlier quickly exited his body and dripped down upon the plastic sheeting on the floor.

After 15 minutes, McIntyre had another photo come on the screen. "Don't take so long remembering these."

"Todd Martinez. Age 4." Again, Grissom needed to swallow. Another rough one.

But his hesitation afforded him a 1-second jolt. It was enough to burn, but not nearly enough to incapacitate. But if Grissom didn't talk about the photo soon enough, he would receive another. "He was found in a ditch off Interstate 710 near East Compton. I was working as a coroner at the time. His injuries suggested he was thrown out of a moving vehicle. Investigators believed it was an act done out of revenge for an unpaid debt by the family."

Next photo, one fresh in Grissom's memory. "Suzanna Kirkwood. Age 16. She was raped her during a home invasion. Her parents were locked in a closet while it happened. Her attacker thought she had identified him in a police line-up. He was released because she was unwilling to identify him, she was too scared. Later that evening her dead body was found in the family's driveway."

"So you victimized her to be a part of a line-up, and even though she never identified her attacker, she's still dead, because you couldn't or wouldn't help her," McIntyre said. "You should feel very guilty about that."

"Yes," Grissom replied.

"No, ya fuckin' don't." McIntyre hit the button for a short burst and sent another large jolt to Grissom.

And so it continued. Grissom detailed photos from past cases. If Grissom hesitated, there was a jolt, sometimes short bursts of less than 2 to 3 seconds and sometimes as long as 5 seconds. All of the electrical shocks seemed like an eternity to the wounded man. If his voice became too hoarse or low, there was a jolt. And if Grissom said something his captor did not appreciate, there was a large jolt.

Grissom thought perhaps the same photos popped up after a while, but now he was unsure. Ever once in a while, he would notice how the shadows in the room moved through the dark curtains of his townhouse. While he wanted desperately to be freed, he could he only afford to stay focused on each photo hoping his memory would not fail him.

But his head hurt and felt heavy. And when he saw Todd Martinez's photo come up on the screen again, Grissom felt like the pain in his head would make him explode. "PLEASE!" He screamed. "I can't..." and he immediately lost consciousness.

McIntyre shrugged and looked at his watch again. It was noon.

Time for lunch.

* * *

Grissom awoke on his own accord. He noticed the direction of the sunlight through the windows, and surmised it was the late afternoon. He had no sense of time; nor did he have any idea as to why he was being attacked; nor who or where his attacker was at this time.

He tried to think about what he had been through. He would gain a thought, and then a flux of images bombarded his mind. It was as if cases of the past came to life once again. The nightmares he waded through for years were hitting him all at once. He couldn't tell if some of his injuries were real or imagined, but sitting as he was in his own living room, duct taped to a metal chair, sitting in his own excrement.

He could tell his right hand was more than seriously injured. It throbbed with the mere thought of movement. His head hurt beyond anything he'd ever experienced during a migraine. He chest ached, his fingers throbbed and his groin was still on fire from the electrical shocks.

The sensory overload of it all nauseated him, although there was nothing left in his stomach to retch. And the thought of emptying his stomach led him to smell the stench around him. Vomit, urination, excrement. The vile stench filled his senses and merged with the stench of his mental images.

Grissom wondered if things could get worse. Then he saw his captor approach him with a big smile on his face.

And he knew things would definitely be making a turn for the worse.

"Awake finally, eh?" McIntyre closed the laptop and moved it to the kitchen table. Grissom didn't know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or become worried.

"How's about we watch us some movies, eh?"

"What kind of movies?" Grissom asked before he could censor himself. He awaited a jolt, a smack or the belt lashed across his exposed legs and he visibly tensed.

But McIntyre simply laughed. "Home movies, I made 'em with you specifically in mind."

He grabbed the remote control, and dragged one of the formal dinning room chairs next to Grissom. As he took a seat, McIntyre turned on the TV and DVD using the remote control. But he quickly paused the DVD.

"Let me ask you something, there, Grissom. Your mother, she died at home alone, right?"

Grissom shot his captor a look. Fuck getting shocked or beaten. Why the hell was he mentioning her?

"I asked you a question, there, Grissom. Did she die alone?"

"Yes." The pain of his mother's death still hurt Grissom. Seven months ago, she had apparently suffered a heart attack and was found a day later by a caregiver. Her death always weighed heavily on Grissom's mind.

McIntyre asked. "That's a shame, eh?"

Grissom said nothing.

"Let me ask you something, there... Have you always wondered how your mother died?"

Again, Grissom said nothing, although he closed his eyes and pictured his mother as she had been when he was a boy.

McIntyre leaned into Grissom. "You know, you could ask me. 'Cause... I was there," he said, leading Grissom to gasp. "Or better yet, why don't I show you the video of what really happened."

McIntyre started the DVD player. The first thing Grissom noticed was the familiar surroundings of his mother's living room. The blue and gold pattern of the aged wallpaper, the presence of the telecommunication device she used on her desk, along with the laptop computer Grissom bought her last Christmas. Someone, presumably McIntyre, held a video camera and walked through from his mother's living room to her bedroom, where Grissom saw a frail figure of his beloved mother on the bed. Her hands were bound with some material, much like a scarf.

"Oh my God, no," Grissom said in a low voice, which escaped regardless of the pain that he would receive as punishment.

The person behind the camera spoke. Grissom quickly identified the voice as that of his attacker. "Curare is a poison that has long been used in tropical South America as an extremely potent arrow poison. It is not something that is harmful if humans ingest it or smell it as a vapor, but if it is injected..."

The person behind the camera placed it on a tripod and then came before the camera. He wore a ski mask, much like the one he wore presently. Grissom watched as the man on the camera injected something into his mother's arm, against her will and as tears ran down her face.

Her eyes were dull and hurt. The noises on the tape were loud. Not of screams, but of Grissom's mother thrashing on the bed. After the longest five minutes of his life, Grissom saw his mother's body become rigid. Her eyes were still open. The life had been drained of her.

"This is one poison that dissipates from the blood stream after a short period of time," the attacker said as he untied the material from her hands. "It will seem like she died as a heart attack to anyone perhaps performing an autopsy."

Then the attacker stopped the taping, and at that moment McIntyre flicked the stop button on the remote control.

"The coroner ruled your mother's death as a heart attack, isn't that right, there, Grissom?"

Despite the pain he felt in his ribs and hands, Grissom moved against his bonds throughout the tape. He continued to do so as he spoke, without censure, to his attacker. "I'm going to kill you."

Jacob McIntyre laughed, "No. No you won't." And then punched the control on for the electrodes.

Grissom lost whatever control he had of his body and his bowels emptied; his face flushed a deep crimson and for a moment, McIntyre thought his victim had died. Then Grissom stopped breathing for several seconds, his face turned a deathly pale.

Laughter turned to worry as McIntyre waited for his victim's recovery.

McIntyre grabbed Grissom's face again and saw the man open his eyes slowly. "What an audience you are! With a reaction like that there, I think we should watch it a few more times, eh?"

McIntyre played it again and again. Grissom lost track after 20 times. If Grissom closed his eyes or turned away, there was a smashing of his fingers with the wrench or a lashing against his calves or his head with the belt. Finally, McIntyre stopped the DVD, but only to plop in another one. "There's more to watch, there, Grissom. Maybe I should pop some popcorn, eh?"

McIntyre laughed and pressed play again. Apparently the camera was already poised on a high vantage point in a bathroom so that a tub full of water that looked dirty was in plain sight. From the look of the towels, travel-sized soaps and small shampoo bottles, Grissom presumed the setting was a hotel bathroom. He could hear ruckus off camera, the distressed voice of a woman and the familiar tone of a dominating man. Soon, his captor came into view with the woman.

"Terri?" Grissom said aloud. "Is that Dr. Terri Miller?"

McIntyre said nothing and didn't take his face away from the screen, but he couldn't hide the smile on his face. "Very good, Dr. Grissom."

On camera, Miller, who was clothed in only her bra and panties, and McIntyre struggled until McIntyre had a choke hold on her. Grissom wondered if she had been raped, and his suspicions were confirmed when the ski-masked man said, "Not a bad piece of pussy, here. But she's a dirty girl. This pussy needs a bath."

With malice, McIntyre pushed Miller's head in the water. She struggled, kicked and flailed in McIntyre's arms, but in the end, he was too strong as her moments ceased and McIntyre simply threw the rest of her into the tub, where her lifeless body faced the ceiling. McIntyre smiled in the camera and left the room, leaving the camera on to register the final terrified look on Terri Miller's face.

While Grissom moved constantly as he watched his mother's video, he sat still with a look of utter disbelief while watching Terri's video.

"We'll play that a few more times. Then there's one to go," McIntyre said as he pushed play and screams filled the room thanks to Grissom's stereo surround sound.

Again, McIntyre noticed how dumbstruck Grissom seemed during the 12 viewings of the Terri's video. He decided to cut that video number short and go the final one.

The next video was the shortest of the three. It wasn't the length of the video that made it damning; it was the people in the video. The camera appeared to be on a tripod and was fixed on a tight shot of his captor with his arms around a thin, brunette woman, apparently screaming in terror.

_My God, _Grissom thought. _Please God, it can't be her. It can't be my Sara. I'm going to kill this bastard._

And before he could think of a just way of killing his tormentor, he watched helplessly as Sara's throat was slashed from right to left. His attacker then carefully hunched her body over as if in prayer on the floor of a bathroom and the blood from her fatal injury began to pool around her neck.

Then with an unexpected move, the murderer waved happily at the camera. The tape's sound wasn't that good, but Grissom swore at he could read his lips as he said, "I'm doing this because of you."

And now, he had watched it 25 times in a row. Each time he looked at it critically. _Did he really kill his Sara? This had be a mistake. But the bathroom was so familiar. I know this, I've seen it before, but dammit, Sara? _

Grissom tried to rationalize what was going on. _When would all of this had happened? Sara was fine when I left the lab Thursday morning, she'd been in the locker room gathering her personal things to go home. She looked so lovely, but then she always did. How did the monster that held him get to Sara and to him? Unless, I was unconscious for longer than I've thought. God, please not Sara._

He didn't even notice the McIntyre had removed the DVD and placed another one in it.

"Okay, now, you're going to watch some educational videos. Parts you will recognize, and parts you may not. And to make sure you don't try to get out of the viewing pleasure, I've made you this," McIntyre attached a helmet to the chair. It had blinders and harnessed Grissom's neck and shoulders to make sure he could not move his head from side to side.

McIntyre set up the DVD so it played in a loop. Along with the three scenes he just witnessed, McIntyre spliced videos of child pornography and child and spousal abuse to intersperse among the videos of Grissom's mother and his co-workers, one that he'd dated and one that he wished now he'd been able to give her more. The sickening videos brought the passionate CSI to the brink of nausea, again.

It was more than McIntyre had hoped when he'd hatched his plot for revenge against Gil Grissom.

* * *

TBC

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Hmmm? Wonder if we had enough money to pool together and that would be enough to buy them?

A/N: Warning: this chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence and character death. Proceed with caution. Remember there is something to be said for your patience in reading this piece; it does get better eventually.

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Chapter 4

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With the videos still playing on a loop pattern, McIntyre made sure that Grissom could not move his head in the makeshift helmet attached to the chair by jostling the helmet.

"If you close your eyes, you will be shocked," McIntyre said in a tired voice.

While his methods exerted less physical energy on McIntyre than with continuous physical beatings, he had to stay awake with Grissom, to revel the man's discomfort. But now, using a timer on his switch, he set the delay control to surge a one-second charge into Grissom's body every 60 minutes. Even if Grissom did close his eyes and sleep, the shock would awake him.

He left Grissom's side, not caring if the man was aware of that fact. McIntyre went to the kitchen and raided the refrigerator, since it was well past dinnertime. Spying fresh mushrooms, scallions and tomatoes, McIntyre thought pasta with primavera sauce would be a wonderful dinner. Some cooking would help settle his nerves; Jacob was keyed up from finally achieving his long desired revenge on Grissom.

He rifled through the kitchen cabinets for a pot or two and found a rather large dog bowl with little bones embellishing the sides. McIntyre had forgotten about the dog. Grissom must have taken him to be boarded while he was to be away for the roller coaster marathon.

As McIntyre chopped vegetables, he thought the dog wouldn't be an issue, so he sat back on one of the stools at the bar while the sauce simmered and enjoyed the sounds of Grissom's moans, sobs and pain-filled grunts.

At the edge of slumber, Jacob's memories of the past that brought him to the threshold of Grissom's townhouse, overcame him. He jolted awake, knowing he needed to stay awake, least his dinner burn. He gave into the images.

_In 1984, McIntyre was a professional college student tenuously studying psychology when he'd met the woman who became his life while doing research at a drug rehabilitation facility. Dale Danley had been a patient at the facility, diagnosed as bipolar, and when she was "up," her spirit led her to take life and living dangerously to the extreme and when she was "down," Jacob found himself seeking ways to lighten her darker moods, to quash her demons._

_Dale was the epitome of beauty: five foot eight, 120 pounds, blonde, blue eyed, Midwestern, girl next-door type. Only she wasn't the girl next door, unless the neighbor was a banshee in disguise. When she was bad, the whole world was on its knees. When she was good, Jacob was on his._

_He found her mood swings fascinating, enticing and arousing. She could become suddenly violent on a whim, especially during her lows. But McIntyre, whose fascination with the human brain led him to voraciously study mental illness and mental manipulation, never left his damaged Dale. He also let her lead him by his nose, among other things. Anything Dale wanted from him, she got._

_This obsession is what led them to Colony Community Bank that one February afternoon in 1985. Dale had aspired to rob, just for fun, a bank in Pine City, Minnesota, a small town about an hour's drive north of Minneapolis on Highway 35, and McIntyre was more than happy to oblige._

_He would enjoy watching how the people in the bank would react to their actions. He didn't necessarily need the money, his family had more than enough. On one weekend prior to their planned heist, they'd snuck into his father's study and stolen two valuable Ivo Fabbri 12-bore shotguns with an estimated worth of around $70,000._

_At first, their goal had been to rob and high tail it out of there, but as they lay in their bed with the shotguns paralleling and caressing her nude body, Dale spoke of a desire to really hurt people. She spoke of the control they could feel as they held people's lives in their hands. Her words and her passion ignited desire within McIntyre that he didn't know existed. He too wanted to feel that power, especially after the powerful orgasms the two had experienced._

_So, they talked about hostages. They spoke about control. They spoke about pain and humiliation. And they conspired about their escape after the fact._

_What never occurred to them was what to do if someone in the bank also had a gun._

_Armed with the expensive shotguns, they made their way into the branch of the community bank. When they walked into the building, power and adrenaline drove them to distraction. If they were more focused, maybe they would have noticed the two men who seemed to move in a direction that gave them a vantage point of attack. Maybe they would have noticed the slight movement they made when they secured their concealed weapons. Maybe they would have noticed they spoke to one another in hushed tones._

_But they didn't. And that ended up being a fatal mistake._

_But McIntyre never saw it as a mistake he and Dale made. He thought of the whole misadventure and blamed Gil Grissom and Phillip Gerard._

_When the single shot from Grissom's service revolver rang out, McIntyre's rush from the adrenaline and power dissipated. He knew he would never forget seeing Dale's pain as she clutched her stomach and as her blood quickly seeped through her fingers. He could see the pure agony and pain on her face. She would have died in his arms, if Gerard hadn't pulled him off her and disarmed him, cuffing him face down on the floor. McIntyre struggled against the restraint, but was helpless as Dale's life drained before his eyes._

_With his face shoved to his side, he saw the man who shot Dale stoop down, brush the hair from her neck and touch her. Although Grissom only sought to find a pulse, McIntyre saw it as a violation of his beloved Dale. He wanted that bastard who had killed Dale to feel the pain she felt. All the sudden the need to seize power and control brewed again in McIntyre's heart._

_McIntyre was convicted of attempted armed robbery and was sentenced to 20 years in prison with possibility of parole after 15 years. His affluent family disowned him and effectively severed all connection to him. He knew what he needed to do in the years of his incarceration: study and fly under the radar. He spent his time earning a degree in psychology. He independently studied much about mental breakdowns, mind torture, mental suggestion and hypnosis. And he dreamed of the revenge he would exact upon both Gil Grissom and his mentor, Phillip Gerard._

As he watched Grissom, now writhing in the chair, McIntyre felt a sense of pride. His hard work seemed to have come to fruition. He had not yet used all the elements of his study, but he soon would. A simple phone call would jump start the next phase of his torture of Gil Grissom and extract a form of revenge upon Phillip Gerard.

But first McIntyre wanted to eat. The pasta was done and the sauce smelled heavenly. And perhaps he would grab a few more hours of sleep. He was sure Grissom wouldn't mind, or even have mind enough to disagree.

Throughout the night and early morning hours of Saturday, McIntyre would check on Grissom. At times he would stop the timed electrical charges, move the electrodes to different parts of Grissom's body. At one point, he watched as Grissom received the small, hourly jolt and then passed out from exhaustion. Another timed charge was not due for another 60 minutes, so McIntyre decided to pause the video and turn off the electrocution box for a few hours.

He wanted to see if Grissom's sleep pattern had been compromised to the point that respite from the images were impossible. After some 12 minutes of sleep, McIntyre heard Grissom scream and moan and beg. He relived the images in his sleep but did not wake. Then, as if on clockwork, his body jolted awake, accustomed to doing so because of the timed charges. Then exhaustion set in again, Grissom's eyes rolled in the back of his head and he was again asleep.

The scene before his eyes fascinated McIntyre to no end.

Some 12 hours after he started the videos, McIntyre prepared to make a phone call for one of the most important phases of his plan. Grissom was awake and the videos were running. After attaching a hands-free device on Grissom's cordless phone, McIntyre turned off the videos and took the helmet off of Grissom's head. Even though the television screen he had watch for hours was now turned off, Grissom could still see the video images in his mind.

McIntyre sensed Grissom's lack of focus and slapped him across the face twice. He removed all the electrodes and placed them safely away from the table. McIntyre then took a cup of ice water and poured it on Grissom's head. Somehow, the pain from the ice seemed to aggravate his wounds from the first day and Grissom screamed in pain.

"Come on, there, Grissom. You need to focus."

McIntyre put the earpiece in his own ear, and secured the microphone by taping it to Grissom's chest. "Good thing you don't have any chest hair, there Grissom. It might hurt when I take the tape off."

While laughing at his own cruel joke, McIntyre started a word processing program and made the font size extremely large so Grissom could easily read the typeface.

McIntyre lifted Grissom roughly by his head and said, "Read out loud what I type on the screen."

Grissom could barely focus after looking at the screen for so long. McIntyre grabbed Grissom's head and pulled it back. "Open your eyes so I can put in these drops here."

For the first time since the nightmare began, McIntyre did something that aided Grissom. The eye drops felt good on his fatigued eyes. "Better, eh?"

"Yes," Grissom replied.

"Now read."

Grissom looked and did as he was asked. "My name is Gil Grissom and I am a murderer."

"You bet you are, ya fucking bastard," the chilling tone of McIntyre's voice returned and Grissom shuddered. "Now, you listen carefully, Grissom. I am going to make a call, and you are to read out loud exactly what I type. Do not add a word. Do not emphasize any particular words. If you do, I will leave here, enter the home of your protégé Warrick Brown put a gun to his head and pull the trigger. You've seen what I've done. You know I can and will do it again. Understand?"

Grissom nodded weakly. He has no idea who his tormentor was calling. Without an earpiece, he would not be able to hear the other end of the conversation and identify the caller. After a short lapse, he saw his tormentor type something quickly on the monitor. Grissom had no choice but to read the words aloud.

"It's Grissom."

On the other end, Phillip Gerard began a conversation with Grissom even though Grissom couldn't hear a word. "Gil. Good to hear from you. How are things with you?"

Grissom saw McIntyre smile as he quickly typed, "I'm good. You?"

Gerard didn't seem phased by Grissom's short answers. On the contrary, it seemed natural. "I'm good, Gil. Thanks. The seminar was fairly cut and dry. I finished yesterday. I was leaving Las Vegas tomorrow morning, are you perhaps interested in meeting? It would be good to see you without the specter of a court case coming between us."

As McIntyre listened, he typed again. "Yes. Dinner at my place?"

"That works for me," McIntyre heard Gerard reply. "I could be at there around six, unless that's too soon."

McIntyre typed again. "No. That's fine. I'll see you then. 1855-B Plum Poet Place."

"OK, Gil. I'll catch a cab there. Good to hear from you."

McIntyre ended the call, took off the earpiece and removed the microphone from Grissom's chest. "Who was that?" Grissom asked. "Who did you contact?"

"I ordered a pizza. I hope you like mushrooms," McIntyre said before roughly grabbing Grissom's face. "I really wouldn't want to ruin the surprise for you there, Grissom. You'll find out before too long. But until then, close your eyes fer a while. I'll have some music to play fer ya, so you won't get too lonely."

McIntyre grabbed a pair of wireless earbud headphones and put them in Grissom's ears. McIntyre started a familiar program on the computer.

It was the video again. Grissom shut his eyes tight. Then he heard McIntyre extend the volume to its loudest point. Pain-filled screams, begging and pleading filled Grissom's ears. Nothing would allow him to escape that.

He felt McIntyre leave his side. Grissom tried to shake the buds out of his ears, but to no avail, the helmet held his head in place.

He knew the pitch, timber and rhythm of every scream, moan and chaotic movement on the videos by heart. And now, the emotion of every sound now had a physical feel to it. He could move in rhythm to the sickening sounds of his mother thrashing about on her bed before she drew her last, labored breath. Although he could hear the screams and knew the video was dark, he knew the exact moment Terri Miller stopped flailing her arms, a moment then followed by a splash as her body was thrown back into the tub.

And he could see vividly the exact moment Sara's throat was slashed, blood spilling down her body. He could see the final frozen look of horror on her face. He saw the last beads of sweat upon her brow just below where her hair was matted against her forehead.

He even memorized the pattern of the blurred tiles in the background. A pattern that seemed so familiar, a black and white checker board pattern, yet he couldn't focus on it because all he could see were Sara's dead eyes and her limp body as her lifeblood drained from her body at the hands of his tormentor. _I could have loved her, if I'd just had the time._

His mind was numb as the sounds merged in his brain to provide a white noise. He hardly noticed when the earbuds were removed from his ears several hours later.

Grissom never heard the doorbell when Phillip Gerard arrived, which made McIntyre laugh. McIntyre took off his mask and discreetly looked out the window and made sure Gerard's cab drove away before answering the door. He opened the door and grabbed Gerard's arm effectively dragging him inside the townhouse before the older man could say a word.

The two men looked at each other face-to-face, and McIntyre realized Gerard recognized him. Gerard fought his attacker and even grabbed hairs off his head after the ski mask fell off of McIntyre's head.

But ultimately, Gerard failed because McIntyre used the same tactic from Grissom's kidnapping, a few well placed whips to the head with the butt end of his pistol. Once Gerard was on the ground, McIntyre made quick work of binding the man's hands and feet.

Gerard struggled against the binds, but it was no use, he knew nothing good would come out of this scenario. He was sure of it as Jacob McIntyre dragged him through Grissom's townhouse.

Gerard recognized McIntyre the moment he answered the door with nothing hiding his face. Eighteen years couldn't erase Jacob McIntyre's face from Gerard's mind. Even though McIntyre looked older and his hair was thinner, Gerard knew he was the man who attempted to rob a small town bank on a cold February morning.

Fortunately the bank personnel, customers (including that little girl Gil saved) survived the heist before the duo could begin their carnage. While McIntyre lived, his foolish partner/girlfriend was not so fortunate. Gerard and Gil had been lauded for their heroism during the bank robbery, but Phillip knew the death of Dale Danley weighted heavily upon Gil's soul.

McIntyre dragged Gerard to the main room, and the older man's heart dropped when he saw a battered Gil Grissom stripped and bound in a chair. "Dear God, what have you done to him?" Gerard asked McIntyre.

"Shut up, Gerard," McIntyre said as he unceremoniously dropped Gerard at his feet. Grissom still couldn't hear a thing from the previous assault on his ears. The lasting effects of the homemade horror movies still lingered in his mind. Once again, McIntyre recognized Grissom's lack of focus.

Since he had an audience, he made the beating count. McIntyre pushed the table with the laptop upon it out of his way, with the laptop flying off the table and hitting the floor hard. Pieces of the machine broke away from it.

McIntyre's fist connected hard against the right side of Grissom's face, once, twice, three times. McIntyre then took a step back and kicked Grissom in the chest. The force of the blow caused the chair and Grissom in it to fall backwards. McIntyre hovered above him and screamed, "DO HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, THERE, YA FUCKIN' BASTARD?"

He then pushed the chair upright and stooped in front of Grissom as he watched his the bound man catch his breath. McIntyre laughed and looked down at Gerard who witnessed the whole ordeal. Despite his own nerves, Gerard seemed calm. It was not the reaction McIntyre hoped for, but at the moment, McIntyre couldn't care less.

"Grissom? Grissom?" McIntyre said in a sickly sweet voice. "You have a friend here, Grissom." McIntyre reached down and positioned Gerard exactly as he wanted — on his knees with his hands and feet bound behind him. Directly in front of Grissom. "Well, say hello, you two."

"Hello, Gil," Gerard said calmly.

"Phillip?" Grissom, whose nerves were exposed after having violent images branded on his brain, couldn't discern if what he was witnessing was real or not.

"It's me, Gil. It's Phillip. I'm here with you, Gil."

"Well, we have such a nice reunion here, don't we gentlemen? Now, if I remember correctly, you were like a mentor, even a father-figure to Grissom, weren't you Gerard?"

_I was, _Gerard thought. The older man knew their last meeting did irrefutable damage to their relationship due to Gerard's arrogance. But now Gerard's gut told him this would be his and Grissom's last meeting. If he could, Gerard had to do something right, to help his former friend.

Grissom stared at Gerard. His breathing was still somewhat labored. When McIntyre punched Gil in the jaw. McIntyre made sure not to damage Grissom's eyes. He obviously didn't want his vision to suffer. A mixture of saliva and blood dripped from Grissom's mouth. His body was physically exhausted.

Within the past 48 hours he had been pistol whipped, burned, punched, whipped and electrocuted. But even more demanding was his mental exhaustion. Despite the fact that Gerard was in front of him and had reassured him of his presence, Grissom still could not believe he was face-to-face with him. Grissom dared to hope Phillip would be able to free him from the clutches of this evil man who'd stripped away his illusions of life and taken away the only two women he'd ever loved in his life.

"Well," McIntyre said, breaking the silence passing between the two men, "if you two don't have anything to say to each other, then how about I get on with this, eh?"

McIntyre went to the kitchen and left them alone. Gerard took the moment to speak quickly. "Gil. GIL." The familiar intensity of Gerard's voice roused Grissom. "Gil, I need you to listen. Look at me Gil. Listen!"

It took a moment, but Grissom did as he was told. He eyes stopped glancing from side to side and he focused on Gerard's face. "Phillip. ... I'm sorry."

"Don't say anything Gil. I need you to listen to me and focus," Gerard's tone was direct and succinct. "Don't trust anything but the evidence, Gil. From cuff to collar, trust nothing but the evidence. Do you hear me?" Gerard looked over his shoulder and saw what McIntyre was bringing from the kitchen. "No matter what ideas this man puts in your head, you only trust the physical evidence. You did nothing wrong, my friend."

Grissom's breathing became erratic. "I... I don't even know who he is..."

Gerard pursed his lips but before he could continue he felt something cold, hard and metallic hit the back of his head. "That's enough talk, Gerard." McIntyre flashed the gun in Grissom's face. "It doesn't seem like you've used this in a while, eh, Grissom?" McIntyre possessed Grissom's old service revolver in his hand. "I spent some time today making sure it is still usable," McIntyre said as he cradled the gun in his hand and then raised it to check the sight. "I've got to tell you, for someone who doesn't carry a weapon anymore, you keep your guns in good working order."

When McIntyre placed the gun roughly against Gerard's temple, the older man didn't say a word. But Grissom gasped and strained to shout, "DON'T!"

"Don't what, Gil? Kill your friend with your gun? Well, let me tell you, buddy, you're the one who's pulling the trigger. You're the one who's going to cause your friend's brains to explode all over your nice townhouse."

"Don't do this!" Again, Grissom strained to shout his words.

At that, an angry McIntyre put the gun to his side and went to grab the roll of duct tape on the table. He ripped a piece of tape off the roll and planted it upon Grissom's mouth. McIntyre repeated the action two more times. He then turned around and threw the duct tape against a wall, shattering glass. McIntyre looked at the gun, and returned to the kitchen, and Gerard took that moment to speak again. "A hell of a day for a side trip, huh Gil?" Gerard smiled at Grissom, who seemed perplexed by the statement. "Just remember, Gil. Sometimes the shot has to be fatal."

As the words floated in Grissom's head, McIntyre came back and resumed the executioner position next to Gerard. The gun now had a silencer attached. "You pulled the trigger, Grissom. Your gun. Your trigger. Your action."

Grissom heard the shot. Grissom watched as Phillip Gerard's final breath was drawn.

Grissom watched the brain matter explode from the head of the man he once regarded as his friend and mentor. Grissom felt Gerard fall forward at his feet. Grissom noticed the pattern the arterial spray made on the armrest of his leather coach and the pool of blood gathered around Gerard's head.

Grissom listened for a final breath. Grissom heard nothing. Then Grissom saw nothing.

McIntyre tightly secured a blindfold around Grissom's head. And somehow, Grissom knew his tormentor wasn't done with him.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: See previous chapters

A/N: Warning: still contains graphic descriptions of violence. Proceed at your own risk. There really is light at the end of the tunnel.

* * *

Chapter 5

* * *

After placing a cover over Grissom's head, McIntyre headed to the garage with the plastic sheeting encased body of Phillip Gerard. He placed the deceased in the van in much in the same manner he had when he'd hoisted Grissom's unconscious body several days before when he'd surprised the entomologist at the casino in Primm. He watched as the dolley lifted the body and then he rolled the body into the interior of the van, he closed the back door and let out a whoop in joy that he'd been holding since he pulled the trigger to kill Gerard.

He felt amazed, empowered, euphoric. Hell, he felt like he owned the fucking world. He pumped his fists in the air in elation and let out another yelp. He had done it, he'd made Grissom suffer.

And damn it, if he didn't want to do it some more.

While McIntyre wanted nothing more than put a fatal bullet into Grissom's stomach, he couldn't resist watching him twist in the wind some more.

He paced around the garage a bit more and saw the huge bag of dog food in the corner. Knowing how Grissom heart practically stopped when he watched his mother die and then witnessing the look on the bastard's face when he shot Gerard point blank, McIntyre thought about what it would be like to see Grissom witness his dog being shot.

It was a tangent from the plan, but it was one McIntyre couldn't resist. He went into the house and searched for information about the dog's vet where McIntyre thought he might be boarded. It was not a difficult task, once McIntyre found Gissom's rolodex.

"Hello. How are you?... That's wonderful," McIntyre said in a syrupy sweet voice. "My name is Philip Gerard and I am an assistant for Dr. Gilbert Grissom. He asked me if I could pick up his dog early from being boarded... Oh? Hank's not there? ... Is that right? ... Oh my, I must have gotten my notes wrong. I do apologize for the interruption. ... Oh, thank you. ... You have a nice day as well."

McIntyre hung up the phone disappointed. If the dog wasn't boarded, then that means someone was taking care of the dog. Then it hit him. "Of course," he said. "Fucking perfect!"

McIntyre approached Grissom and found him slumped in the chair. He grabbed the ski mask off his head and found him still unconscious. He ripped off the tape from his mouth, hoping that he might revive Grissom but it didn't.

There was a good chance whoever boarded the dog for the weekend, might bring him back at any time. The idea of killing that person in front of Grissom's delighted McIntyre, but he wanted to finish his business with Gerard. He might be dead, but McIntyre had one more wish to fulfill with the dead man's body.

He stooped down and stared at the bound man. He wished he could burn a hole in Grissom's stomach and watch his life ooze out of him. Then a fertile idea popped in McIntyre's head. And once again, he smiled. "I did a job on you, Grissom, that's fer sure, but I think I need to try one more experiment. Maybe I shouldn't be the one here putting the bullet in your gut."

* * *

McIntyre was tired. He had never considered his age a factor, but after a long weekend of torture and murder McIntyre felt old at 40. There were so many times during his post-prison stint at the university that McIntyre heard the boorish, arrogant academics exclaim, "40 is the new 30." It would make McIntyre laugh. _The bastards. They had no clue. It's not "the new 30" when you spent 15 years of it doing hard time, that's fer sure,_ he thought to himself.

Cleaning up the inevitable waste products of blood, puke and excrement probably exhausted McIntyre the most. He could have left Gerard's body rotting in Grissom's townhouse, but he knew if he did, Gerard's family would have the opportunity to give the bastard a burial. Well-wishers would stand at Gerard's grave giving him posthumous kudos, and that idea made McIntyre sick. Gerard earned no kudos in his in life or in his death.

His body didn't deserve a burial. It deserved to be ripped apart by vicious animals in the desert, which is where McIntyre left him. Hopefully by midday, Gerard's remains will be bloated, with the smell drawing in the wolves and coyotes then the remains scattered across the uneven terrain of the desert. Jacob found a good place in the vastness of the desert to leave the body. He used the dolley lift, and rolled the body out of the plastic, then as one last sacrilege, he pissed on the body.

He got back into the driver's side of the van and sighed heavily. His joints hurt and dammit if his index finger didn't hurt from that stupid cut he gotten earlier at the townhouse. Before he left Grissom, he performed a little experiment and cleaned up a bit. Inside his van was his busted laptop, tools, the _parilla_ chair and two garbage bags filled with the plastic sheeting that covered the floor and caught most of the blood, sweat and filth excreted by Grissom over the weekend.

He cut his finger on glass in the corner of the townhouse. Before he blew Gerard's brains out, he threw a roll of duct tape in a rage and broke a framed butterfly encasing that hung on the wall. While he cleaned up the mess, he must have sliced his finger on the broken glass. Damn butterfly. _Wait... what happened to that butterfly? _He thought. _Did I remember to throw away? And did I turn on the dishwasher with the dishes and silverware I used for lunch and dinner?_

As McIntyre took a silent inventory of what was done in the townhouse, his eye caught sight of something on his driver's door window. A six-legged bug stood firm upon the glass. McIntyre looked at it and couldn't figure out if it was alive or dead. It didn't move a muscle. McIntyre pounded the glass once, but it did nothing to move the creature. Then he pounded the glass four times. This time, it brought up one of its legs, but still did not budge from its spot.

McIntyre shook his head and silently laughed at himself for the absurdity of the situation. He started the car and drove off.

He knew he would have plenty of time to get back to Grissom. Since the dog wasn't at the vet's office, McIntyre would bet (and hoped) the brunette Grissom seemed so fixated on, Sara, had the dog. After he would make Grissom watch his dog die, he would make Grissom watch Sara suffer.

For about five miles, McIntyre daydreamed about what he would do to Sara's naked body and what would torture Grissom's mind all the more. That is, if the bastard was still alive. McIntyre had been gone a while...

A quick glance out of his driver's side window broke McIntyre's reverie. "Oh, come on now," he said aloud.

The six-legged bug stood firm upon the glass, even as McIntyre drove 50 miles per hour. "Tough little bastard, eh? Well, let's see how you like this here." McIntyre sped up to 70 miles per hour. While he kept his eyes on the road, his focus continued to falter off the road and onto the bug to his left. The little creature refused to budge. Its body lifted just slightly as the car sped up, but its footing -- all six of it -- stayed firm. "Ya stupid fuckin' bug! How the hell..."

He felt the van drift out of his control and careen off the road. He swerved hard to miss a tree, but he still felt the impact as he sideswiped against it. The impact caused McIntyre to be roughly jolted in the car. He lost all control and the van tumbled further down a short, rocky slope, tumbling over and coming to a halt against the rough terrain.

McIntyre moaned. His body was contorted and strewn across the front passenger section of his van. He tried to push himself up, but mind-numbing pain shot through his right arm and through his head. He lost track of time as he floated on the cusp of consciousness. Finally he took a heavy swallow of blood and saliva and opened the passenger-side door with his left hand. He fell out of the car and saw the damage. A small bit of smoke floated out of the exposed radiator. He went to make his way back up to the road, but returned to the car to retrieve his personal gun from the glove compartment.

His gait was labored, but he managed to get back up to the road. The moon high in the sky made him glance at his watch -- 11 p.m. He walked in the moonlight for a few yards, when headlights came in view. He went to reach for his sidearm, but the pain in his hand forced him to retrieve it with his left. "This will be fucking fun, eh?" he said.

The car stopped and the driver's window opened. Two men, including the driver in a muscle shirt sneered at McIntyre. "Problem, man?"

McIntyre recognized the prison tattoo on the driver and realized his own shirt sleeve was ripped to reveal his own prison tat. "No problems, eh," McIntyre said, wiping his forehead with his left hand that held his gun. "Just taking a stroll, here."

"Right," the driver said as he nodded his head. He said something to the passenger who just shrugged his shoulders and went back to smoking his joint. "And I'm the King of Nevada. Get in. I know where to get you some band-aids."

McIntyre took a hard look, put the gun back in his pocket and opened the passenger door behind the driver. The driver drove off in the direction opposite McIntyre traveled, but McIntyre didn't protest. His plans had been compromised, and he needed to disappear. And get his arm taken care of. He leaned his head back to relax but was jolted upright when the driver made a wild swerve.

"A god-damned deer," the driver cursed.

His stoned passenger chucked. "They come out of fucking nowhere sometimes. Dude...," he said to McIntyre, "don't you hate deer in the middle of the road?"

McIntyre leaned his head back again. "No. I hate fucking bugs."

* * *

TBC

A/N: And the bugs hate you, too, McIntyre. Let us know if you're still reading. We love reviews.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: We don't own the rights to CSI, so we'll return them battered and bruised when we're done.

A/N: Finally a little comic relief! This chapter does not contain violence. Thank God, most of you say....:)

* * *

Chapter 6

* * *

Sara Sidle was seriously getting tired of her houseguest. It had been four days, not that she'd minded, but really, something needed to be done. He had almost eaten her out of house and home. He lay around on her furniture, sleeping or drooling. Plus he chewed her best running shoes to pieces the first day he'd stayed with her, and the next day he had used her best Victoria's Secret matching underwear as his chew toy.

The dog, she had been assured, was house-trained, but she seriously doubted the truth of that statement. She'd come home from work and the dog had pooped on her carpet or on the linoleum of her kitchen. The puddles — they could be anywhere. Hank was a very friendly dog that happily escorted her on her daily five-mile runs. But his lack of potty training was getting on her nerves.... her shoes... and her bare feet.

He had to go.

Grissom was due back soon, hopefully tomorrow sometime, and she'd be sure never to volunteer to dog-sit for him again. If he was scheduled to be away from Las Vegas for several days, then he could ask somebody else.

Grissom hadn't told her where he'd been going on his long four-day weekend. She'd assumed a conference or maybe a jaunt to the Netherlands. You just never knew with her enigmatic supervisor.

He'd asked her to keep Hank at the beginning of their shift Wednesday. Grissom said he would be out of town until shift the following Monday and he'd forgotten to make arrangements for his dog to be boarded at the vet's and would she mind dog-sitting for him.

Of course, she said she'd do it. She would do anything for that man. Hank was her favorite running partner, the dog knew her and it wasn't like Sara had anything better to do. And it was always a bonus to impress her boss... well, to impress Grissom.

The dog runs had started out innocently enough. One morning Sara had been the last of the night shift to leave the lab, she decided to stop off at her favorite coffee shop for a decaffeinated Earl Grey. She sat outside on their patio with her eyes struggling to stay open, winding down in the early morning sunshine when suddenly she felt a large animal jump onto her. She immediately came awake. She looked down, and a large boxer was sniffing her.

"I'm sorry, Sara. My dog must like you." Her eyes shot up and met the amused blue eyes of the man who had changed her life. The dog kept up his inspection of her.

"I didn't know you had a dog, Grissom."

He smiled and unexpectedly sat down on the other chair at her table. "I got Hank a while back. My doctor told me to increase my cardiac output with more exercise, so I thought maybe having to walk a dog everyday would be all the excuse I would need. But this monster is almost more than I can handle." Grissom pulled the leash and the dog immediately sat.

Sara watched as he reached into his pocket and gave the dog a treat. She took a sip of her tea, silently gestured at the cup in question and Grissom looked her in the eye and wordlessly nodded that he didn't care for a drink.

"Good dog," he muttered as he scratched the animal behind one of his ears.

"Does he like to run, a lot?" Sara asked.

"I maintain a brisk pace, but he would prefer running all out." Grissom looked so relaxed, as he continued to pet his dog.

"I generally run five miles when I get up in the afternoons. I could always take him with me for a run." Sara blushed, when she realized what she'd suggested.

"Really? That wouldn't put an imposition on you would it?" Grissom asked, looking at her as his sunglasses slipped down his nose.

"No, it's better for woman to have a dog or someone running with her nowadays."

"I agree with you. I'd like to know you were safe. Hank is yours whenever you need him. Just phone ahead to make sure I'm awake and you can take him running and then maybe he won't chew up all my shoes in an effort to curb some of his energy."

They laughed, then sat in an agreeable silence for a time. Hank not so shyly moved to sit beside Sara, and without much thought, she began petting him in the same manner as had Grissom. Sara watched Grissom without being conspicuous. He looked so handsome in the day light hours.

"Why did you name him Hank?" Sara asked as she took the last sip of her tea.

"Hank Williams."

"You named him after the guy who sings the Monday night football theme song?"

Grissom's face broke into a full grin and his laugh was like music to her ears. "No. That's Hank Junior who sings that. I'm a big fan of his father, the king of the country music."

"And here I thought Nick was the only one who liked country music." She bestowed her best smile on him.

"He was popular when I was a kid, and I usually only listen to old time country music when I need to wind down. I prefer what they call classic rock and classical music." He smiled back at her, enjoying the ease of their company.

* * *

Sara's thoughts of Grissom were cut off by the ringing of her cell phone. She looked at the screen and saw that it was Warrick Brown. She leaned down to pet Hank without thinking; she was scratching the animal behind his ears with her fingernails while she opened the phone to answer the call.

"Hey War, what's up?"

"We got a case in the desert that swing is too understaffed to handle. I was on call, and I decided to call you for a little help."

"Well, my friend, where and when?"

He gave her the directions and then added: "A couple found the body when they pulled off to the side of the road. It's a fresh body, so you won't have to worry about getting some lemons for your shower."

"Thanks for the heads up and I'll see you in about 30 minutes." She flipped her phone shut and then looked down at the animal leaning into her touch. "And you, you lovable mutt, if you so much as touch another one of my shoes or underwear while I'm gone to work, I know just how to get rid of your body."

Hank looked up into her eyes with a "What me?" expression.

Sara returned his look. "Yes, you. Don't be chewing on my stuff. And tomorrow, your daddy is coming home from where ever he may have gone and you can go home and stay. I'll still come to get you to run with me, but honey, I don't think the two of us were meant to live together."

* * *

Warrick and Sara were met by Detective Vega at the top of the hill. "Hey. The body's down there. I have the Crawfords sitting over there," Vega said as he pointed to a couple snuggling next to a their car. It wasn't long before the trio watched the couple make out with gusto.

"Are they aware that this is a crime scene with a dead body and investigators?" Sara asked sarcastically.

Vega laughed and walked toward the couple, with Sara and Warrick following him. "Newlyweds, just got hitched today at the 'Little Chapel of Love.' Let's just say, they take a very optimistic look at the current situation." Vegas stopped in front of the couple, who now were a mess of tangled limbs and rumbled clothes. He cleared his throat before speaking, which stopped the kissing, but not the touching. "Mr. and Mrs. Crawford. This is Sara Sidle and Warrick Brown from our crime lab. They would like to ask you some questions."

Colleen and Chance Crawford stood up in unison, they arms draped around each other. Colleen extended her hand to make a limp gesture of hello. "I'm Colleen and this is Chance." The introductions seemed to set off waves of passionate heat between the couple. Warrick, Vega and Sara didn't know whether to laugh or stand perplexed.

Before they could light their fires again, Warrick asked, "Could you tell us how you found the body?"

"Oh, we had pulled off the road just a few yards away," Chance said, pointing north down the road to the couple's electric car. "We were trying to find the perfect spot out here in the desert for consummating our love and fulfilling our parental destinies. The moon's magical glow guided our way to this, our sacred place of nesting."

Vega looked down at his shoes and Warrick nodded as he pursed his lips. But Sara seemed completely nonplussed by the response. "So the moon guided you to down this ridge?"

"That's right," Colleen said. "We followed its glow as the wind whistled that ancient siren's call. 'Seek and you shall find. Seek and you shall find.' But alas, we stumbled upon a shell."

"A shell?" Warrick said.

"An empty shell of a man," Sara said without skipping a beat. "Did you call the authorities right away?"

"Well, we did take time to listen to what Mother was telling us," Colleen said.

"And while we were frightened by what we found, we realized our quests, our destinies need to be fortified at that very moment. We had to consummate at that moment."

"Wait a minute," Vega said, hearing this account for the first time. "Are you saying you had sex down there next to the dead body? Then you called us?"

Both Crawfords looked offended. Chance protectively covered his wife with his body. "We could not ignore the circle of life!"

"The Lion King?" Warrick asked.

Sara sighed. "They believed they had to create life since they had found death. Isn't that correct?"

"Exactly," Chance said enthusiastically. "It guarantees our child to have the graces of a moon child. We could not let death take precedence over life."

"I can't believe this. It's a crime scene!" Vega said.

"We used a blanket," Colleen said. "And we were far away from ... the shell. We couldn't let that aura seep into our lovemaking and spoil Chance's seed."

"Of course," Vega said. "Who would want that to happen? I'm going to take down some more information, unless you two have more questions."

"No, I think we're cool," Warrick said. "We're going to go see the ... shell."

Warrick shook his head and smiled as he and Sara made it down the ridge. "Girl, how the hell did you know what they talking about?"

"Let's just say they reminded me of my parents," Sara said. "And in my opinion, being a moon child is highly overrated."

"Sara Sidle, a moon child? Get out of here!" Warrick snickered, "I'm going to tell Greg."

"Oh hell no, you're not. You'll be left a shell if you proceed with that threat."

Warrick's eyebrows lifted in surprise, then Sara smiled at him putting him at ease. The two continued down the ridge and found David Phillips at the bottom with the body. "Hey guys."

"Hey David. Need some help?" Warrick asked.

David and Warrick flipped the body over to place him on the body bag. That's when Sara gasped. "Oh my God." She almost tripped over her own feet as her shock overtook her when she saw the body.

"Sara?" Warrick looked over as she regained her balance. "What's wrong?"

"Don't you recognize him?" Sara backed up a bit slower.

Warrick looked down at the DB in the failing light as the moon was disappearing against the backdrop of mountains in a distance. Warrick studied the body for a while before he noticed that Sara walked around the body as she held her hand against her mouth.

"I don't know who it is Sara. Who is it?" Warrick questioned his co-worker.

"The Tom Haviland murder case: Marjorie Westcott, the wicked witch of the west and Dr. Phillip ..."

"Oh my God, it IS him." Warrick stared down at the body laying unceremoniously on the tarp like material of the body bag. "Oh God."

David propped up the body and took a liver temperature. "He's been dead about four hours and levidity is fixed on the back side of his body. It appears this body was dumped here. Cause of death appears to be a gun shot wound to right side of the temple." David looked between the two CSIs. "How do you guys know him?"

Sara's voice was almost emotionless. "That is Dr. Phillip Gerard. He was Grissom's mentor in forensic science."

David shook his head and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Grissom's gonna have a cow."

TBC

* * *

A/N: We want to thank everyone for hanging on. We hope the story has been worth the read, especially with all the previous violence. We want to put a thank you out there to all our reviewers, including those who offer anonymous. Since we can't reply to the reviews, we'd like to say thanks so much for reading. And to anonymous JL, you were correct about the last chapter girl! Good job!


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: See previous chapters

* * *

Chapter 7

* * *

_While Jacob McIntyre served his time in prison, he had applied for admission into the long distance learning program at the University of Minnesota in order to complete his degree in psychology. With his application, he included a grant proposal to pay for his tuition and a contract to participate in a work program at the university when he is released from prison._

_After seven years behind bars, McIntyre was as an exemplary prisoner. That combined with the credits he earned before he was incarcerated and his impressive proposal led administrators in the psychology department to give the prisoner an chance, if he agreed to psychological testing and participation in a case study conducted by members of the department._

_McIntyre agreed wholeheartedly._

_The state of Minnesota granted him parole in 2002 after he served 15 years. He still needed a few more credits for his bachelor's degree in psychology with a minor in ethics. While working his campus job, his program mentor, Ruben Espinosa, invited him to attend an a seminar on forensic anthropology. McIntyre thought, what the hell._

_The seminar was somewhat interesting, but not due to the subject matter. The speaker intrigued McIntyre's psychological mind because he found Terri Miller to be immensely in love with the sound of her own voice. While he deemed her to be highly intelligent, he thought perhaps her arrogance might be her downfall._

_Although her lecture bored him at times, there was a point during the question and answer session that truly held McIntyre's attention._

_A question had been posed that dealt with correlation between forensic anthropology and forensic entomology, to which Terri Miller smiled and said, in a smokey voice, "Oh, I believe you are referring to a recent journal article by a very good friend of mine, Dr. Gil Grissom, the forensic entomologist with the Las Vegas Crime Lab."_

_The name alone made McIntyre's heart race and blood boil._

_After the Q&A, McIntyre asked Espinosa if he minded if he asked Dr. Miller a question. "Sure, Jacob, I'll wait outside."_

_With Espinosa no longer watching him, McIntyre descended the stairs to the podium. His gait was much more measured than usual, and had a suggestion of a feminine sway. He smiled at those who passed him. Stopping near the podium, he casually folded his arms across his chest and waited for Terri Miller to finish talking with two young studs._

_When they conclued their questions, McIntyre gave the men a flirtatious eyebrow wag, as he affected a homosexual stance. He took a step toward Miller with an outstretched hand. "Hello, my name is Dale Danley, I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your lecture."_

_His voice pattern, his stance, his gentle hand grip and his gait led Miller to think what McIntyre hoped she would. She smiled and gave his hand a gentle squeeze before she removed it. "Thank you, Dale."_

_McIntyre turned around cheekedly before continuing, "So, if you don't mind me asking, how is Dr. Grissom doing these days?"_

_Miller laughed. "I suppose Vegas is treating him well."_

"_I'm sure that blistering sun is doing wonders for him. Dr. Grissom with a tan... yum," McIntyre said, let his hand give Miller's forearm a friendly squeeze. "I met him fifteen years ago in Minnesota when I was an undergraduate. I'm not ashamed to say this, but I have always hoped I could be a very good friend of his."_

_Again, McIntyre emphasized his point with a flirtatious eyebrow wag, leading the most professional chuckle to escape from Miller's mouth. She couldn't help but be giddy about this subject. Grissom with a male suitor, it boggled her mind because as well as she knew Gil Grissom, the thought of him being gay made her laugh; it was almost too funny._

"_Well, I hate to break it to you, but I have first hand knowledge that your attentions in that direction may be unwelcome. After all, Gil and I have dated."_

"_Ohhhh, you go, girl. Successful anthropologist being courted by a successful entomologist. I'm sure you led him around with just your little pinky finger and a smile."_

"_He understands where I stand, although I'm not one to kiss and tell... "_

"_I would expect nothing else from a lady of your intelligence and caliber," McIntyre said with a mock bow. "Well, thank you so much for your time. I hope I hear you lecture sometime in the future."_

_Miller took out a card that simply had her name and Web site. "If you go online to my website, you can find the schedule of events where I'm scheduled to speak."_

"_Oh, thank you, doctor," McIntyre said. "I'll be sure to keep my eyes open for you."_

_And he did. When she left for a month-long excursion to Guatemala just two weeks ago, she was surprised when Mr. Dale Danley picked her up at the airport._

_But not as surprised as when he took control of her life in that small hotel room._

* * *

"DUDE!"

McIntyre woke with a start. The lull of the car ride, along with the pain of his injuries and the pure exhaustion from the weekend, caused him to fall sleep with his gun still clutched in his left hand. As he woke, he straightened up a bit and put his gun at ready.

"Easy, dude. We just stopped for gas. We're going inside to pay and grab some stuff. You need anything?"

McIntyre looked outside at the pumps and the deteriorating exterior of the curb store. He checked his watch and saw it was 1:30 am. "Here," McIntyre said, taking out a wallet from his rear pocket and retrieving a $100 bill. "Use this."

The stoner smiled and was about to snatch the bill, but the look the driver of the care made gave the stoner pause.

"Why so generous?" the driver asked.

"You're welcome to use it or not." Despite the friendly connotation of the words, McIntyre's tone matched the driver's intensity.

The driver simply opened his door and got out, leading the stoner to grab the c-note and leave the car enthusiastically. As the driver talked to the stoner outside the car, McIntyre recalled his dream. While Grissom reacted to the killing of Terri Miller in the video, he was not nearly as devastated by the sight as he was when he witnessed his mother's death or that of who he thought was Sara Sidle. _Terri Miller, that arrogant bitch,_ McIntyre thought, _she had me thinking she'd made Grissom her boy toy. _

The thought only made McIntyre more upset about his predicament. He looked out the car window to see the driver leaning against the car near its gas tank waiting for the passenger to return from paying for the gas inside. If McIntyre had paid attention to the road better, he could have been back at Grissom's house sleeping in that luxurious king sized bed and been refreshed enough to slit Sara Sidle's throat for real; instead of the slut he'd used in her stead in the first place. After he raped her, repeatedly, with malice and spite, and with little mercy. Right before the eyes of Grissom. _Hahaha._

But instead, McIntyre was stuck in the back of a couple of ex-con's car going who knows where with a seriously messed up arm. It seemed bad, and the pain was really getting to him. He was spying the stoner's knapsack on the floorboards of the front seat when he heard the trunk open. Using his still gloved left hand, McIntyre grabbed the remaining cash in the wallet and two cards and put it in his side cargo-pant pocket. He left the wallet back on the seat next to him.

The stoner returned and put some items in the truck while the driver pumped the gas. The stoner then opened the passenger door and entered the car with a couple of bags. "Booze or bubbles? Sweet or salty."

"Just give me a few chocolate bars and a pop," McIntyre said with disinterest.

The stoner obliged, and handed McIntyre the candy bars and an energy bar, along with a can of soda.

"I think you forgot something," McIntyre said, again with his hand on the gun. "The change?"

"What the hell you think you're going do, dude?" the stoner asked with some bravado. "We're in a fucking gas station."

McIntyre laughed. "You're a tough guy, fer sure. Tell you what. Keep the rest of the money if you got something that can help with my sore arm."

The stoner eyeballed him. But, hell, handing over a few pilfered Vicodin wouldn't kill him. He reached into his bag and pulled out six pills. Without a word, he gave them to McIntyre who immediately downed two pills with a swig of cold cola and put the four bars in the side pocket of his cargo pants. McIntyre noticed the stoner lit up again and was barely coherent after this third drag.

The driver finished filling the gas tank and knocked on the window. McIntyre rolled it down as the driver spoke to him quietly. "We're about an hour away from Barstow. We're going farther, but you want to stop there?"

_California_, McIntyre thought. He hadn't been there in years, but he figured the two men were probably on their way to Los Angeles, and McIntyre had no desire to go that far. "I just need a place to go to take care of my arm. You know a someplace like that in Barstow?"

"Yeah. I do."

"They gotta bus station there?"

"Yeah."

"Works for me."

They drove for another hour and a half before dropping McIntyre off at a strip mall in Barstow that included StatCare Clinic. McIntyre grunted a couple words of thanks, gave the driver some cash, got out of the car and went on his way.

The stoner passenger woke up when McIntyre closed the door. He turned to watch McIntyre out the rear window as they drove off. McIntyre walked toward an all-night lounge instead of the medical clinic. "Dude, I had some booze here in the car, wonder why he went in there?"

"He's not looking for booze, asshole," the driver said. "He's probably looking to score some funds."

As McIntyre watched them drive off, he concealed his gun in his pants and took out his cotton, ski mask. He stood waiting in the shadows as inebriated patrons left the bar. A pair of couples holding hands. Five drunken frat boys singing their school's fight song, one of them began puking before he got seven steps out of the bar. A business man in a crumpled suit, said goodbye to another gang of business men and walked to his car alone. He was smoking a cigarette and laughing to himself over some insipid joke he'd heard before leaving the bar.

The man made his way to his vehicle, a company car with the name Amydysis emblazoned on the door. He completely caught off guard when he heard a tap on the driver's side window. He saw a smiling man lifted up his left hand to say "Hello." The driver put the key in the ignition just to get the battery strength to roll down the window. "What do you want?"

"Hey," the man said, as he rubbed the discreetly rolled-up cotton hat upon his head. "I just wanted to warn you, if you drive down that street, there's always a cop looking to nail one of drinking folks to the wall. So, be careful. I got burned a month ago and now I have to hoof it home. Damn cops."

The driver noticeably relaxed and smiled. "Hey, man, thanks for the tip."

"Hate to break a guy's good buzz..."

"No, I probably needed to sober up a bit," the driver chuckled.

"Oh yeah?" the man said as he swiftly pulled the wool cap over his face and took a gun out of the back of his pants. Before the man could react, McIntyre firmly planted the muzzle of the gun against the driver's head. "I betcha this might sober you up."

A noticeable stain formed on the driver's pants, which made McIntyre chuckle. "OK, I need your cash. Don't hold out on me, or this car will be a mess of blood and brain matter. I want the cash from your wallet and any money clips. And give me yer jacket."

The man did as he was told. The threat and the tone of Jacob's voice made a profound effect on the now sobering business man who complied without a word. McIntyre kept his eye trained for any stragglers coming out of the bar.

"Now... what?" The man stuttered.

"Now? I'm not sure if I trust you to drive away and not stop till you get to your hotel?"

"I'm... I'm fine. I'll dri.. dri... drive away," the driver said.

McIntyre placed the muzzle upon the man's head, which made him whimper and close his eyes. "Drive off. Slowly. Don'tcha be thinkin' of stopping, you understand there?"

"Ye...Yes."

McIntyre took two steps back but kept his gun trained on the car. "Go. Slowly."

After the car pulled off, McIntyre put his gun away, took off his mask and shoved it in his pants. He grabbed the jacket off the ground and walk a bit to a park bench. He checked the wallet and found $67 in loose bills and two money clips, emblazoned with Amydysis, each with $250 a piece.

_Not too bad, for a one-armed robber,_ McIntyre thought. He gingerly put on the jacket and made his way back to the bar where he would call for a cab to take him to the nearest, cheap motel_. Tomorrow, I'll get my arm looked over._

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: The next update will be soon. Perhaps tomorrow night or Saturday. Thanks so much for reading :-)


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: We don't own 'em.

* * *

Chapter 8

* * *

Dr. Albert Robbins stood over the cold metal slab that held the body of Phillip Gerard, looking at the two CSIs as they nervously shifted their weight back and forth. Neither Brown nor Sidle looked comfortable and Robbins couldn't say he blamed them. On the slab was a man who, the last time they saw him, was dressed in the finest three-piece suit a murderous celebrity could buy. Now he was naked, with a 'y' incision on his chest and a large portion of the left side of his head was missing from a gunshot that entered the right side of his head.

The silence of the trio punctuated the chill of the room that was always dim and smelling of a decomp and chemicals. But business was business, as Doc Robbins started talking.

'Cause of death: Single gun shot wound to the right temple. Large caliber weapon, I would suppose, but there isn't a bullet, only an entry and exit wound. When you find the original crime scene, you'll probably find the slug. The victim was 68 years old and otherwise in good health until the elusive bullet penetrated his brain. Death was immediate. I can't tell you guys anything else, but the body was clean, cleaner than I've ever seen. Nothing under his nails, but there was some trace from his clothing that I sent up to Hodges. That's all I know.'

He pulled his glasses off and looked particularly at Sara. 'Have you tried to contact Grissom yet?'

'I tried his cell several times, but it appears it's turned off. He is out of town, but I'm not sure where he is.'

The pair of CSIs removed their required lab coats as they left the room.

Albert exhaled the breath he'd been holding then shuffled over on his loftstran crutches to the cold metal slab to his right and began his next autopsy.

* * *

Sara had been doing an Internet search on Phillip Gerard. She had researched him several times in her life: the first time when she'd found out the man had been her mentor's mentor. She was curious about the person who had trained Grissom. The second time was when Gerard had been hired by the ambitious defense attorney to discredit the lab in a failed attempt to keep her client from going to prison for murder.

This third time she found that Gerard had been in Vegas that weekend teaching a seminar at Caesar's Palace convention center on the effects of recovering a body in snow. She laughed to herself. No wonder she hadn't heard of the seminar; snow wasn't something she particularly needed to worry about in Las Vegas, but she was sure other forensic criminalists from around the country would be more than happy to spend some of their time and money in Sin City.

Sara wondered if that's why Grissom had gone out of town; not wanting to run into his former mentor. She smirked, it was definitely something Grissom would do: run and hide from something he didn't want to face.

Warrick had gone back out to the crime scene to see if he could find more evidence in the light of day. He'd called and reported that he had found some tire marks close to the body dump and he was also a bit more observant when later on the way back to the crime lab, he noticed some black tire marks on the road several miles from the body dump. When Warrick investigated, he saw a white unmarked van upside down in a depression in the desert. There was blood everywhere. He wrapped the van in plastic wrap and called for the van to be towed to the lab.

Warrick was tired and after filling out the appropriate paperwork, he went home and crashed. He had a feeling he'd need all his wits about him when he and Sara continued their investigation into the death of Phillip Gerard and he almost dreaded Grissom returning. Their supervisor would most definitely make their lives a living hell until they discovered who'd killed his mentor.

Meanwhile, Sara had gone to Gerard's hotel room looking for any type of evidence, but found nothing in the room and she'd secured the videotapes of hotel to check his movements through-out the day he'd been there. Archie Johnson had only found one interesting shot of Gerard, smiling while talking on his cell phone as he made his way through the casino.

There wasn't a lot to go on and it really bothered Sara there was no evidence what so ever. She hadn't bothered to go home and sleep that day as she worked on Gerard's last movements and even interviewed some of the attendees of his seminar.

She was sitting on an uncomfortable metal stool before her computer workstation, stretching a bit. Shift was due to begin again in a short period of time and she wished Grissom would return earlier than next shift. Something about all this was bothering her and she really wanted to speak to her supervisor about his mentor... and her house guest.

Judy Tremont's voice penetrated her thoughts: 'Sara?'

Sara heard her name over the intercom. 'Yeah?'

'Some weird guy keeps asking for somebody named Sara Grissom. I told him that Dr. Grissom was not in the building at present and the only other person named Sara was you. He then asked me if you were a skinny brunette. I said 'yes.' He's on Line 4.'

Sara scrunched up her face, then stretched again before picking up the office land-line.

'Sidle. How can I help you?'

'This is Woody,' the voice in her ear said. She struggled for a brief moment to remember the voice, but it escaped her.

'Who?' Sara questioned the man.

'The chief engineer at The Sphinx.'

'I'm sorry?'

'Pharaoh's Fever? You remember, it derailed awhile back and you and Gil worked the case.'

Sara remembered the case in detail before responding. 'How can I help you Woody?'

'Sara? Where is Gil? He and I were supposed to doing the coaster marathon at Buffalo Bill's in Primm, but he never showed up. It started Thursday. That asshole from England won the marathon again. I came in fourth. Gil would have beaten that son of a bitch.'

'He went to Primm on Thursday?' Sara thought for a moment back to his sudden request to keep Hank. She'd honestly thought he'd skipped town to avoid his former mentor. 'That's news to me.'

'Well, aren't the two of you married or dating, I mean, he's crazy about you, he talks about you all the time.' Woody's voice sounded concerned.

'No, we're not. Just co-workers.'

'Could have fooled me.' The sound of slight laughter coming through her receiver made her smile. 'So, where could he have gone? He really wanted to do this marathon with me. He wouldn't have missed this marathon for the world unless something bad happened.'

A sudden chill overtook her body. Something bad had happened to Grissom, she could feel it in her bones. First, Gerard dead and now, Grissom missing. She had to find him.

Woody continued, 'You're a CSI, find him so I can cuss him out for missing out on all the fun.' With that, the connection ended.

Sara decided she needed to head to Grissom's townhouse to see if she could find any evidence; after all she did have a key, she wouldn't need a search warrant. It wasn't like something had really happened to Grissom.

But she still felt the need for backup. She scrolled to the end of caller ID list. She knew when she would hear his voice it would sound like warm honey. Yet, that voice would make her feel anxious because since she was making this call, that meant her instincts know something was wrong with Grissom.

'Brown.'

'Hi, it's Sara. I'm on my way to Grissom's place. I think something's happened to him.' Her speech took on a frantic pace. 'I got a weird phone call from someone Grissom knows, who said that Grissom hadn't shown up for a roller coaster marathon and he couldn't get a hold of him. First, Gerard is dead, now, Griss is missing. Something is wrong, War. I know it.'

While Warrick listened to her, he was getting out of his bed and throwing on some clothes. 'OK, girl. I think you're right. But don't go busting up into Griss' place without me. OK? I'll be there in fifteen. Promise me, you won't do anything.'

'I promise.'

When she arrived, Sara looked in the open window of Grissom's townhouse. Everything was in perfect order, his living room looked as it always did when she arrived to pick up Hank. She realized she'd probably overreacted. She took a deep breath as she waited for her partner in this case to drive up.

* * *

Warrick Brown had barely finished dressing when he reached his company-issued SUV. Sara's phone call had scared him. He wouldn't ever admit to it, but the hairs on his arms raised and a sensation of dread filled him.

As he drove through the streets of Las Vegas, he wondered if they would find the dead body of Gil Grissom, but then he tried to reason with himself. _She's just over-exaggerating. Being overcautious, _Warrick thought to himself. _She's letting her emotions get the best of her._

Then again, Warrick was too, which led him to turn on his flashers and pick up speed. When he pulled the truck onto the correct street, his headlights caught the slim figure of his partner awaiting him in front of the dark townhouse. Warrick knew the brunette had feelings for their boss, just as he knew their supervisor had the same deep feelings for her. If something bad had happened to Grissom, Warrick knew he would have to keep the woman from breaking down.

He parked the truck and Sara was immediately at his door.

'No signs of disturbance in the living room. I peeked through the front window. I've got the key to his house, but I didn't want to go in alone just in case I were to find something ...' Sara trailed off.

Warrick understood her cause for concern. Grissom meant the world to him, but he knew it was different for Sara. So to lighten the mood, Warrick lifted his eyebrows salaciously. 'Um, so, Sara, why do you have a key to Grissom's house? Is there something going on between the two of you I should know about?'

Sara Sidle straightened up to her full height and punched him hard in the shoulder before he knew what had happened. 'Girl, why did you do that?'

She just looked at him, with THAT look, the one that said, 'Don't fuck with me buster.' Then she took her keys out of her pocket and unsecured her weapon. She turned to see Warrick with his hand on his own service revolver. 'Ready?' She asked.

'Yeah. Come on. Let's go see what's going on.'

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: OK. They are there. Check out the next update in about five days. And we promise the next chapter will be a continuation of this scene. Thanks for reading. Hope you continue to enjoy.

One thing I will be doing this weekend is getting my nominations together for the CSI fanfiction awards. It's a really cool thing the community does. Not only are authors are recognized, but readers get a list of stories and can find gems among them. My favorite angst story comes from last year's list. It didn't win, but I thought it was the greatest and was happy I found it through the list.

Since ff dot net won't let me list the web site, go to 'Google,' plug in the words 'CSI fanfiction awards 2009' and it should take you to the site. There are a bunch of categories (romance, angst, character studies, case files, WIP -- works in progress; and PWP – Porn Without Plot), so nominate the ones you love (including the underappreciated ones!)

OK, sorry. Commercial over. :-)


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Once upon a time, we owned CSI, but silly Jellybean sold it to Jerry Bruckheimer on Ebay for less than a dollar.

A/N: The cavalry is here!

* * *

Chapter 9

* * *

Warrick entered Grissom's townhouse first, followed closely by Sara who put the key chain back in her pocket and now held her weapon in her hand; although not raised. They both took stock of the living room. Sara saw the wall, and noticed something seemed out of place, but could put her finger on it. The few times she had been in the room, Hank would beg for her attention before she could really concentrate on her surroundings.

"Grissom!" Sara yelled. "Grissom? You here?"

No answer.

"It smells like cleanser and disinfectant in here." Sara said.

"It's clean. Not that Grissom is a slob," Warrick added. "You think maybe Grissom has a maid who came this weekend?"

"I don't think so," Sara said as she moved to the kitchen and noticed the "clean" button shined blue on Grissom's dishwasher. "Someone did the dishes. No telling how long ago. Maybe he did them before he left?" She continued to walk to the kitchen and noticed the door to the garage. "Warrick. I'm going to check the garage."

"OK, I'll check around inside."

Warrick walked towards the office and took a quick glance to see no one there. He then moved towards the master bedroom and bath. "GRIS!" He called, just in case he might find his boss in a compromising position with a lady.

Boy, how Warrick wished it was that easy.

Warrick knocked on the slightly closed door of the master bedroom. "Gris. It's Warrick. You in there, man?"

He spied in the room bathed in darkness, since the blinds and its curtains were shut. But he could just make out an outline of a figure on the bed. He took a step inside. "Gris?"

The light from the hallway offered enough light that Warrick knew it was Grissom on the bed. He seemed to be sleeping on his side with a sheet covering his lower body. Warrick let out a sigh of relief and turned to leave the room.

Then he stopped. _What the hell is an office chair doing in the room?_

Warrick turned back around and went closer to the bed. A wheeled office chair was parked right next to the side of the bed where Grissom lay without a shirt. Warrick put his hand on Grissom's shoulder, and tried to revive him. "Grissom?" With no response, Warrick got closer and noticed the condition of Grissom's scalp. Dried blood encrusted a long laceration on his head.

"Holy shit. Dammit! Grissom, wake up, man!" Warrick turned on the light and checked for a pulse. "OK, Griss. OK." As he searched for a pulse upon Grissom's neck, Warrick noticed a set horizontal bruises along Grissom's back. "Oh my God." Quickly Warrick grabbed for his cellular to call 911, but it wasn't in his holster. Then he remembered he left it in the SUV. He looked for a phone and noticed a cordless phone cradle, but no phone.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered before screaming at the top of his lungs. "SARA! SARA!

Ready to run for Sara himself, Warrick couldn't move his feet as his mind catalogued the rest of Grissom's body and examined the swollen and bruised right arm. When Warrick saw Grissom's fingers, he almost lost it. Mangled and bloodied, the look of the three raw fingertips made Warrick cringe with empathy for the pain that must have caused.

Nerves caused Warrick to yank the covers away from Grissom to search for more blood. "Oh... Goddamn it!" Bruises and blackened burn marks botched Grissom's torso and pelvis and along places Warrick wished he haven't seen. When the first tear escaped his eye, Warrick broke himself out of his reverie. He moved to the front of the bedroom door and yelled again. "Sara! SARA!"

Sara had been in the garage. While there, nothing seemed out of place. Grissom's Mercedes was not in its spot. But she did see some scuff marks on the floor that could have been something. But more importantly was the oil stain on the floor. Grissom wasn't a grease monkey, but he took care of his Mercedes. She took a moment to inspect it and was certain it was oil. Without her kit she couldn't know for sure. Maybe she was overreacting and Grissom was fine and in need of a new oil pan.

Still, she wanted to tell Warrick about what she found so she went towards the other side of the house. When she entered the kitchen she immediately heard Warrick's screams and went running. She had never heard his voice quite like that. She rushed into the the bedroom faster than words escaped her mouth. "Warrick what's wrong?... Oh God." Sara stopped in her tracks at the foot of the bed.

Warrick quickly covered Grissom up to his stomach. "CALL 911! He needs help now!"

Sara's already had her phone out and with shaky hands punched the three numbers. Sara barked orders in the phone for paramedics and then for police backup. When she closed the phone,Warrick was still locked in his place with a hand on Grissom's shoulder. "Come on, Griss. You've got to wake up."

He was startled when Sara touched him. "JESUS! DID YOU CALL FOR HELP!" he yelled. She's never seen her friend with such fierce, raw emotion.

"I did. They'll be here in three minutes," her tone was more gentle than she realized. "Warrick... go outside. Call Brass and Catherine. After help gets here, this place needs to be processed."

Warrick looked at her. She knew what he was thinking. For once, she needed to reassure Warrick, she noticed his hands were shaking uncontrollably. "I'll stay with him. Please."

"Keep ..." Warrick had to stop. He was losing it. "Keep talking to him; maybe he'll wake up. I'll be right out there."

She watched him walk out the door. When she looked back at Grissom, she put her hand to her mouth and could feel herself shaking. "Oh God. What's happened to you?"

The odor that saturated the air in the room smelled of death: blood, sweat, bile, necrotic tissues, excrement, all combining in a less than pleasant smell.

She couldn't stop herself from caressing the side of his face as she tried to awaken him. Many thoughts ran through her head as she watched him struggle for life, before her eyes. "If only" was the most predominate thought. She prayed; she cussed; she screamed in agony for him.

When the paramedics came in several minutes later, they found her with tears streaming down her face. She quickly got her self back together and when questioned she told them he had been unconscious when they found him. She told him Grissom's age and that he had no known allergies. They quickly took his vital signs and one began sticking his left arm with a needle to begin an IV.

Warrick was outside the townhouse when Sara emerged. Once he saw her, he pulled her into an embrace. She held him tight for herself and for him. They stayed still for a short time. "What the fuck happened to him, Sara?" Warrick asked as held her.

"I don't know," Sara said as she let go of him. "We need to go back inside and process the place." Sara wiped her eyes and took a breath. "It was clean but something wasn't right."

"Brass should be here soon. I left a message for Catherine," Warrick said as he paced back and forth. "This has to be connected with Gerard; too much of a goddamn coincidence, if it isn't. And that wrecked van a few miles from Gerard's body, I'll be willing to bet that's a big key to all of this."

Sara was silent for a few moment before it occurred to her, "I found an oil leak in the garage."

"Nah," Warrick shook his head. "No way Grissom's ride has a leak."

He shook his head, as they watched Brass fly in, jump out of his car and rush over to them. "Is he alive? Where is he?"

"Paramedics still with him," Warrick said.

What little they knew, they shared with Brass. "I got a call from Ecklie; he's coming with his day shift crew to process."

Brass surreptitiously watched Sara, who stood as white as a sheet as Warrick voiced his displeasure over that particular piece of information.

"Brass that's not right," Warrick said. "We'll go start right now."

"Warrick, it's for procedure's sake," Brass said, not wanting to waste time on an argument. "I'll make sure Ecklie shares everything with you."

Warrick nodded, knowing too now was not the time to argue.

"How long were you two in there?" Brass asked.

"Four or five minutes," Warrick said. "We came into the living room first... Immediately noticed it was too clean."

"There's a framed butterfly missing from the north wall," Sara added. "There's a stain on the garage floor, possibly oil."

Brass continued to write notes. "Who found him?"

"Me," Warrick said stoically. "Thought he was asleep on top of the bed, but I noticed an office chair right by the bed... that's when I found him... He was..."

"Naked and mangled," Sara added, sadly and distant.

"Yeah," Warrick continued. "When I left the room, I noticed scuff marks from the living room to the bedroom. I'm thinking all that happened in the living room."

The front door opened as paramedics exited with Grissom. The driver made for the front of the ambulance, while one stayed in the back with Grissom. Sara, Warrick and Brass heard the one in the back say into the radio that connected them to Desert Palm Emergency Room, "White male, 48, unconscious. BP 88/46; O2 sats at 78; pulse 54. No known allergies. Multiple lacerations to the head, torso and lower extremities. 5 of 5 edema in bilateral hands and fingers. Probable concussion. Multiple burn sites through-out body. IV fluids for dehydration. ETA to hospital 4 minutes. "

They stood together and watched the ambulance pull off, lights and siren blaring.

"Jesus," Brass said, his voice low and controlled. "Ecklie should be here soon. You guys can go to the hospital."

"If we're not at the hospital, we're at the fucking lab," Warrick said. "Make sure Ecklie knows that."

"I will," Brass said, who gave Sara another look as if to push her towards the Denali.

Sara looked dejectedly at Brass and followed Warrick wordlessly to his SUV.

TBC

* * *

A/N: So Chauncey allowed me to release the chapter a day earlier. So hip hip hurray for Chauncey!(whoo-hoo!) Hope this was worth the wait, the highly unnecessary wait, I must say! LOL


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: CSI is owned by CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, et al. Not us though.

* * *

Chapter 10

* * *

Jacob McIntyre walked into the StatCare Clinic at around 9 the next morning. He had caught a ride from another patron at the hotel where he'd stayed to a local Wal-Mart to buy some clothes and toiletries, which he used after walking back to the motel, then showered and threw away his old clothes. He'd kept the jacket he had stolen from the businessman. It might come in handy sometime.

The receptionist didn't acknowledge his presence at her counter behind the glass, which, although he didn't show it, infuriated McIntyre. He had little sleep and the pain from walking, shopping, showering, and especially putting on clothes, left him anxious and impatient. He went through the six Vicodin by 6:30 that morning. He needed to have his arm set and given a prescription for some heavy duty pain killers so he could just pass out in his motel room for a couple of days.

But if there was one thing McIntyre knew, sometimes you could catch flies with honey better than with vinegar. And maybe a midwestern accent. He gently used his left hand to knock on the glass. "Good mornin', my dear. How are you today?"

The receptionist was absolutely unimpressed. "Insurance card and identification, please."

McIntyre smiled and kept his eyes on the receptionist as he retrieved the two cards she asked. He passed the items under the glass with five $50 bills. "I think that should cover my co-pay."

With her eyes on the bills, rather than the cards, the receptionist put the money aside and mechanically made a photocopy of the driver's license and insurance card without taking a good look. She passed them back to McIntyre without much fanfare.

"OK, fill out these forms and bring them back to me when you're done. Why do you need to see the doctor, Mr. ...? she looked down at his identification for his name, "Gerard?"

"I was in a bike accident and did a number on my arm," McIntyre said. "Lookin' for relief from this pain."

"Take a seat, fill out the forms and the nurse will call you when Dr. Foley can see you."

* * *

The way Warrick drove, they made it to the hospital as the paramedics were taking Grissom out of the back of the ambulance. From their vantage point, they could see he was still unconscious, with a grayish tint to his face and upper body.

They knew they couldn't follow the stretcher inside, but they did anyway. At least they were able to stand with the paramedics who brought him in. "His pulse was thready; improved to around 65. BP at 85/52. Patient was breathing on his own, but his oxygen saturation level is low, so we have him on oxygen. They're going to check him out in the ER, and he'll need tests to evaluate the head injury and to determine the extent of his other injuries."

Warrick and Sara silently regarded what was said as they walked with the retreating paramedic, who stopped before going back into the cab of the ambulance. "All those wounds on his body..." the paramedic said. "Wonder what the hell happened to him?"

Sara had to swallow a lump in her throat before she could respond. "We don't know."

"But we're going to fucking find out," Warrick continued.

After they were shuffled off to the waiting room, neither Sara nor Warrick spoke to one another. Both were worried about Grissom. Sara stared into space and hadn't moved from the plastic chair she'd sat in when they entered the room. Warrick paced and would make a phone call from time to time. Catherine arrived after about an hour and a half and demanded answers. Thirty minutes later, Nick and Greg arrived and waited. Warrick and Nick were speaking in depth about the situation, Gerard and the mysterious van. Catherine had fallen asleep against Greg's shoulder, while Sara still stared off into space, not saying a word.

* * *

Jacob McIntyre used his keycard to open up his room at the Motel 6. The time at the clinic went without a hitch, with the exception of the doctor questioning his date of birth. When Dr. Foley read his patient's date of birth as March 14, 1937, he was surprised to see someone looking as young McIntyre. But the ex-con's quick wit told the doctor he had transposed his birth year as 37 when it should be 73.

"I do that all the time," McIntyre said in a quiet, pathetic voice. "I'm sorry about that. Your receptionist got it right for the insurance, because it was accepted. That's just what I wrote there."

The doctor patted him on the back. "Son, I understand. That would make you 32. That's more like it. I have a grandson who's your age, believe it or not..."

He prattled on, but McIntyre didn't mind as long as his arm was set and cast. The doctor also stitched up a cut on McIntyre's leg and examined bruising on his torso. McIntyre gave a sob story that his private physician is on vacation for three weeks, which is why he stayed in town instead of seeking treatment at his home in Sedona. The doctor took pity on him and wrote him a month's prescription for painkillers and muscle relaxers and agreed to call in the prescriptions to the Wal-Mart pharmacy. He even instructed McIntyre to come back to the clinic in a few days for a follow-up visit, if he was still in the area.

Being able to use the prescription co-pay under Gerard's name saved McIntyre a bundle, so he would have enough for some food. Of course, there was the option of lifting the wallets off of some more unwilling victims.

But funds and food would wait. McIntyre toed off his shoes, threw the jacket onto a chair, took four of the painkillers dry and lay down on the bed. He felt like shit. All he wanted to do was get rested and then get back to Vegas.

* * *

Dr. Philip Beck, the on-call emergency room physician wrote notes about his latest patient, Gil Grissom, when another physician came behind. Beck recognized the surgeon immediately. "Glad you had a few minutes. Thanks for coming down."

"No problem, Philip. This the film on the consult you wanted?" His eye caught the X-rays that were illuminated on the wall. He could see several open fractured areas without closely inspecting them.

"Yeah. I got a couple of Polaroids of his hands, so you could see the extent of the damage."

The surgeon nodded, but cringed when he saw the photos. "What happened to his hand? Did he catch his hand in a piece of machinery to have those nails ripped off?"

"Not sure. He was found unconscious and unresponsive by a couple of friends. Transported via EMS. From the looks of the head wounds and shoulders, I'd say he was pistol whipped," Beck pointed to a circular burn on the top of the hand. "He had areas like that all over his body, including his genitals. I think the guy was electrocuted. Not sure the extent of the nerve damage."

"Poor bastard," the surgeon said as he put down the items. "We'll have to see when he is responsive. I'll check out the schedule... what's the patient's name?"

"Gil Grissom."

"You've got to be kidding me," the surgeon replied.

* * *

"Family of Gil Grissom?"

Upon seeing a group of people stand, Dr. Beck, dressed in his wrinkled aqua scrubs, walked towards them, rubbing his eyes for a short moment, and then offered them a banal expression that relayed neither good nor bad news.

"Quite the group," he said.

Catherine took a step forward. "I'm Catherine Willows. We all work with Gil..."

"Dr. Philip Beck. Good to see you all. You've been waiting here a while, so I'll try to answer any and all of your questions as best I can," Beck motioned for everyone to sit down as he sat on the arm of the couch. Beck's professional, yet gentle demeanor, and attempted to calm the group.

Dr. Beck catalogued Grissom's injuries: three major lacerations on the top of his head, one on the back of his head; a concussion; four broken ribs; open fractures in four fingers, along with apparent forcible removal of three fingernails; a hairline fracture to the cheekbone; deep bruising of the back both calf muscles; distal radius and ulna fractures along the right wrist and a sprained left wrist; badly bruised right shoulder that included a laceration that needed 14 stitches; burns over approximately six percent of his body; contusions and abrasions over the majority of his torso and lower extremity and deep horizontal bruising across his back.

"I've spoken to one of the staff orthopedic surgeons about surgery for his fingers tonight. Mr. Grissom is at severe risk for infection and necrosis of his nerves and muscles of his fingers if we don't operate immediately, otherwise he would be at risk for amputation. There are open fractures in which the skin was broken from the splintering effects of the bone. The orthopedic doctor will provide external fixators on those fingers in order to mobilize them, and speed the recovery process. Mr. Grissom is looking to have extensive physical and occupational therapy to regain use of his right hand again," Beck said, and continued.

"The fractures located on his radius and ulna appear to be from a twisting type motion, and maybe require the same type of apparatus as his fingers, an external fixator to allow for healing when a cast is not an option. We're going to wait several days before attempting this secondary surgery to the more severe damage in his fingers."

"Anything else?" Sara asked when Dr. Beck paused.

"The good news is that there are no fractures of his skull and we do not detect any bleeding of the brain. But we still need to monitor those injuries."

"Is he conscious?" Sara asked.

"No, he's not. Were you one of the ones who found him?" Sara nodded. Dr. Beck continued, "Do you have any idea how long he might have been unconscious? Any type of timeline for his injuries?"

"He was supposed to be on vacation starting Thursday, but we know he never made it to his destination," Sara said. "So no one's really heard from him in the last 96 hours."

The doctor just let out a sigh. "Well... it sounds like we don't have a clear consensus on how long he's been unconscious. Considering the trauma to the head and third degree burns to six percent of his body, combined with the severe beating his body seemed to have taken, he has experienced a good bit of pain. So, in a small way, being unconscious might be what his body needs to counteract the effects of the pain."

"Doctor, those circular burn marks on his body?" Warrick asked. "Any idea what caused them?"

"The orthopedic surgeon and I were discussing this just before I came out to speak with you, because there was one on his right hand, there were 15 distinct burns of the same nature," Beck said. "I'm not an expert on what caused them, but, in my opinion, those look like burns from some type of electrodes. Which leads me to believe someone tried to electrocute him at various voltages because each area isn't as damaged as others."

"Where is he now?" Greg asked.

"Being prepped for surgery. Shouldn't be more than a few hours, Vincent is usually quick with this type procedure, but it is delicate nonetheless. Someone will update you when the surgery is complete then after recovery, you can visit Mr. Grissom. No more than two at a time for short intervals, the nurse on staff will let you know." Dr. Beck stood up. "So if there aren't anymore questions..."

"No. Thank you doctor," Catherine said.

"My pleasure. Good luck," the doctor said as he left.

"Brass asked for an update, so I was going to call him," Catherine said. "Is anyone going to stick around to see him?"

"Warrick and I want to go back to the lab and get a jump on processing that van," Nick said. "If something happens, let us know."

"Sure guys," Catherine said. "Warrick? Don't you need some sleep?"

"You kidding?" Warrick's tone was clipped, but his anger wasn't directed to anyone in the room, and the gang knew that. "I need to get to the lab."

"What about you two?" Catherine asked Sara and Greg.

"I can stay for a while," Greg said.

"Me too... oh shit. Hank!"

"Hank?" Catherine said in surprise. "Your Hank?"

"No....no, Grissom's Hank," Sara paced a bit. "Oh God, my underwear's going to be shredded." That comment stopped everyone in place, including Warrick and Nick, and Sara noticed. "Grissom has a dog. I...the dog and I go jogging together for exercise and for protection, that's why I have a key to Grissom's place. I've been taking care of Hank while he's been out of town, and well, he...the dog, well he...likestoeatmyunderwear." Sara blushed as she looked up for their responses.

"Did Grissom teach him that trick?" Nick asked with a big smile.

They snickered at that. "If he did, that would be the most impressive thing Grissom's ever done," Greg added.

The lighthearted teasing of Grissom seemed to lighten the somber mood, even for Warrick. Soon the two men left, Catherine waving goodbye, her ear attached to her cell phone, "I don't care, Conrad, I'm coming over there now."

* * *

About two-and-a-half hours later, a nurse called out, "Family of Grissom?" Sara and Greg raised their hands. "Excuse me, but the surgeon wanted me to tell you that Mr. Grissom would be placed in a room, shortly. He has not regained consciousness at this time. His room is 5095 on the orthopedic floor. You two can wait there for his arrival."

Forty-five minutes later, an orderly entered the room with the supine Gil Grissom, dressed in a hospital gown and covered with a white sheet. Sara gasped when she saw his pale body covered in gauze and bandages. Greg reached for Sara's hand as the man transferred Grissom from the stretcher to the bed. A nurse came in and attached all of the medical paraphernalia, but neither of the two CSIs noticed as both trained their eyes on the patient.

After the nurse left, Greg slipped out of the room quietly, leaving Sara alone with Grissom.

She stood at the end of the bed, the image of him in the townhouse flashed before her eyes and she couldn't stop the tears from falling. She was thankful she was alone with him and thankful the smell of death didn't surround him anymore. But he was still very pale. She sat on the edge of the bed as she could to him, and stroked any uninjured area of his arm, shoulder or cheek not encumbered with external fixators, tubes, gauze or tape.

She didn't notice the time until Greg slipped in bearing two cups of coffee. She smiled at him. "He's going to be okay, Greg. I don't want to leave him, but I really need to go check on Hank, will you stay with Grissom while I'm gone so he won't be alone?"

"Sure."

"I'll be back in an hour."

"Make it two, so you'll have enough time to go panty shopping," Greg grinned, fully expecting Sara's fist to his shoulder.

Sara called a cab and rode back to Grissom's townhouse where she'd left her Prius. She didn't say anything to the uniformed police who hovered around the entrance or to one of the day shift CSIs who'd walked out of Grissom's loaded with evidence bags. She laughed when she thought she heard Catherine's voice resonate from the house. She got into her car and headed home.

Opening the door slowly, she slipped inside, on guard in case Hank tried to attack her. And he did. He excitedly jumped up on her and attempted to lick her in the face. His happiness seemed to chip away at her sad mood.

She expected Hank to run to the corner and grab his leash. But Hank unexpectedly got down and whined for Sara. "What's wrong, boy?" She walked to the kitchen to get some juice, and Hank followed her as he whined. Then she made her way to her couch, only to have Hank jump on top of it and put his head in her lap. "What's going on with you? Don't you want to go for a run?"

Hank looked up at Sara, nuzzled his nose under her hand and stayed like that. "Oh my God. You smell Grissom, don't you?"

Sara welled up. "He'll be OK. I promise. You'll see him soon, OK?"

She sat with him like that and drank her juice slowly. She didn't even notice the pile of mangled underwear in the corner just under his bed.

* * *

TBC

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: If we owned CSI, would we really be writing fan fiction?

* * *

Chapter 11

* * *

Officer Michael Slavin, a lieutenant of the Barstow Police Department, finished a few notes before knocking on another door at the Motel 6. He enjoyed serving as one of the three dozen officers of Barstow, with a population of 23,000 residents. Last year, they had seen a slight spike in homicides, from 3 to 5, but he hoped that trend would be curtailed.

The officer was investigating an attempted homicide. He knocked on room 107 a couple of times, and when he received no answer, he pounded a little harder and made his presence known. "Barstow Police Department. Open the door, please."

A man, whose posture and appearance reflected a just-out-of-bed look, opened the door. He looked a bit unsure of the police officer standing in front of him and leaned heavily on the door frame and wall.

"James Braid?"

"Umm... yessir. Jimmy Braid. What can I do for ya?" The man's voice was low, but his thick southern accent was prominent.

Bestowing his credentials, Slavin introduced himself. "I'm Officer Michael Slavin of the Barstow Police Department. We're investigating an attempted homicide. Could you tell me where you were between the hours of 10 p.m. and midnight?"

The man rubbed his eyes with his left hand. "Well, I was here sleepin' officer."

"Did you hear anything between those hours?"

Even if he did, the man would never say. But fortunately, for once in his life, he didn't have to lie to save his own skin. "Officer, I'm afraid I can't oblige much. You see, once I take one of my happy pills for the pain in my arm, I'd be lucky to hear a junk yard dog barkin' in my ear and beggin' for a bone." The man's southern drawl made the officer smile.

"You investigatin' a crime on these premises, sir?"

"That's right. Could I see some ID, Mr. Braid?"

"Course, sir." He went to the table and retrieved the thin wallet upon it. Slavin noticed the man walked gingerly. Using his almost useless right hand to just hold the wallet, the man retrieved his license with his left hand. "There you go, officer."

"You come quite a ways, Mr. Braid. Medlock, Georgia?"

"Yessir, just outside the great city of Atlanta."

"You hurt your arm out here, Mr. Braid?"

The man laughed. "No sir. To tell you the truth, sir, I came around these parts to clear my head some. Got into a terrible argument with my ole lady. While I'm not sure who won our argument, me or my lady that is, I do know I lost the drunken argument I had with a flight of stairs leading me from an unsavory establishment to the street, if you don't mind me sayin' so. A couple of days later, I took a bus out of town and this was where I wound up."

Again, Slavin smiled. "Well, here is my card. I would really appreciate it if you contact me if you recall anything you may have heard from last night."

"I certainly will, sir," the man said. "May I ask, am I still allowed to get to the front office? I sure could use a look at my computer messages and perhaps an ice-cold Coca-Cola."

"That's not a problem, Mr. Braid. The front office is still available. But I think the only soda machine there sells Pepsi products."

The man mockingly stood up straight. "Sir, that is an abomination from where I come from."

The officer left chuckling, and the door to 107 was closed. Jacob McIntyre closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had been asleep since the morning before, but his body still ached and exhaustion still plagued his bones. But he was thankful for that trusty ID he had created years ago. It was still good after all these years.

He would go to the front desk, but not before a couple more hours of much needed rest. He managed to put on a new pair of pants but changing his shirt wasn't physically possible without inflicting more pain. He slowly walked to the front desk and saw a young woman behind the counter fiddling with a laptop. It was the same college student he saw the day before when he came back from the doctor's office. "Hey there sweetie. How are you this mornin'?" He said in his drawl.

The woman gave a pleasant smile. "Oh, hey, Mr. Braid. You sleeping OK with that arm?"

"Doin' just fine, sugar. Don't you go worrin' bout that." McIntyre made sure he was polite, but not flirtatious. "Now, would it be possible for me to borrow your computer for just a few minutes. I wanted to check and see if my ole lady has calmed down a bit and will let me come home. Maybe check the newspapers back home to see what's going on."

The girl snorted and quickly saved her information on the computer and closed it down flat. "Yeah, sure, Mr. Braid. I have a wireless connection, so why don't you use it on that table in the corner. We have a pair of headphones for residents to use... here they are. You need some coffee or a soda or something?"

McIntyre retrieved the laptop and headphones over the counter. "Well, aren't you sweet? I'd love a Coke, if you have one, sugar."

"My name's Melissa, not sugar."

Jacob laughed, "Lovely name, Melissa."

His gait continued to be labored as he walked to the table. Without fanfare, McIntyre sat at the table, put on the headphones, opened up the laptop and started the Internet search engine. Before he could input any information, Melissa came back with book under her arm and the familiar red can of a coke in her hand. When he fiddled with the pop top, she opened it for him. "You are just the sweetest thing," McIntyre said.

The student simply rolled her eyes. "You know, when I saw your name on the register, I couldn't figure out where I saw it," she said opening a psychology textbook at a bookmarked page. "Then I was studying for my psych 102 exam, and I remembered."

She showed McIntyre a page dedicated to Dr. James Braid, a Scottish-born physician who died in 1860 in Chorlton-on-Medlock, Manchester, England. "So are you related to the 'Father of Hypnosis?'"

McIntyre looked up at the young woman with an empty expression for a moment. Then a smile crept upon his face. "Well, that is some kind of coincidence, Melissa. You never know, do you? My folks were Scotch-Irish for the most part, so who knows?"

The girl closed her book. "I don't even know if that hypnosis stuff is real," she said in her most skeptical and apathetic voice. "I mean, come on, being able to control people's minds with suggestions and stuff."

"Well, I don't know about that, sugar. You see, if you break a man physically, emotionally, mentally... I suppose it's quite possible to lead that man to do what you will him to do."

"You really think that?"

McIntyre gave a tired laugh. "I'm not rightly sure, but it might be possible. And it sure would be interestin' to watch."

The young woman made a small expression of disgust. "Well, that is something I wouldn't want to see. Holding someone's ... I don't know... life in your hands like that. Seems kind of creepy... even evil."

McIntyre gave her a soft, silent grin. "You are probably 100 percent correct 'bout that, Melissa. Now, I'll be checking this stuff, enjoying this Coke and getting your computer back in no time. I think its time for more rest."

"No problem, Mr. Braid. I'll be right there behind the desk."

He watched her leave and then went back to the search engine, where hewent to the newspaper and news affiliates of Las Vegas. Using the headphones, he listened and watched a clip from a local station.

_"Police are still investigating the possible abduction and criminal beating of a crime scene investigator. Official reports state that Dr. Gilbert Grissom, an 18-year veteran of the Crime Scene Investigation unit, was attacked sometime during the end of last week and perhaps through the weekend. Investigators would not confirm or speculate on any leads, and didn't comment on Dr. Grissom's condition. But a hospital spokesperson confirmed Dr. Grissom is listed in critical but stable condition at Desert Palm Hospital."_

McIntyre closed the window, took off the headphones and drank a long swig of the soda. He wasn't sure about his emotions after hearing that report. He had hoped no one had found Grissom, yet he supposed it was only fitting. Grissom would most likely be in the hospital for a while, so there was not a rush for McIntyre to get back to Vegas. And as anxious as he was to leave Barstow, he knew a bus ride back to Vegas in his condition would be unbearable for the next few days.

So he would wait. McIntyre got up, returned the laptop with a "much obliged," and went back to his room with his can of soda. Behind his closed door, he swallowed two more pain pills and ate one of the last energy bars the stoner had given him.

Then he went to bed. While waiting for sleep, McIntyre thought about what Grissom looked like when he left him. And he wondered how the fucking bastard fared right now.

* * *

Sara sniffled back a few tears, as she sat at his bedside, cataloguing Grissom's appearance: bandages covered head; his eyes where closed in slumber; silvadene ointment was coated upon the burn areas; he wore a blue- and red-striped hospital gown; an IV line ran from the crook of his left arm to an intimidating machine that peeped occasionally; a foley ran from under the gown into a waste bag under his bed; another IV type line ran from his chest to a machine with a pump; oxygen piped into his nose through a nasal cannula and Grissom's right hand was propped up on a pillow and had secured metal sticking out of the four fingers that had been broken. His eyes were blackened, there were bruises and more burns along the outsides of his legs.

Overall, if she didn't know it was Grissom beneath the hospital paraphernalia, she could have easily viewed the patient as a "vic" in her latest crime scene, but the feelings she felt for the man before her, left her emotional and praying for his recovery.

She had come with Catherine to visit, but Catherine had wanted to get some coffee from the cafeteria downstairs. Before she left, Catherine patted the unconscious Grissom on the shoulder and said, "I'll be back, Gil. Sara's here for you. She'll keep you good company. She'd be good for you if you'd let her."

They watched as Grissom let out a breath, Sara made an audible gasp, but Catherine was more matter-of-fact. "The nurses said he would do that. That's just him letting us know he's breathing OK." She could act as it were a mundane occurrence if she wanted, but Sara could read Catherine's body language and it was saying, "Please wake up, Gil."

"Be right back, Gil. Don't be a pain in Sara's ass." She gave her friend another gentle squeeze and just hesitated a second or two longer than normal, then left the room.

He had been unconscious since they brought him in the day before and there was no way to tell how long he'd been out before they had found him.

Sara put her free hand through her hair and let out a sigh. _I need to talk to him. That's what people do when they visit. They talk. Let's go Sidle. He needs you right now._

And if she was honest with herself, she needed him, too.

"Grissom? Grissom, it's Sara. I'm right here." She put her hand on his less injured left hand which only inches above the IV line was attached. "You're in the hospital now. So you're safe. OK?"

She stroked his hand gently. She heard a noise outside the room and turned to see if Catherine returned. But it was only a nurse entering the room next door. Sara returned her attention to Grissom and while her hand still held his left hand, she scooted out of her chair and sat gingerly upon the edge of his bed. At that angle, she could stroke his hand and then moved up to caress his arm as well.

Then she returned her hands to her lap. She kept forgetting to talk to him. "It's funny. I haven't seen you for days, and I don't even know what to talk to you about."

_Sure you do_, she thought. "Well... let me tell you something about your dog, Dr. Grissom, Hank is cute and all but you owe me a pair of running shoes and a few new sets of lingerie. Hank had been eating my underwear."

_Underwear? You couldn't think of something to say, so you went straight to the underwear? Jesus, Sidle._

"I'm not saying _YOU _have to buy me lingerie, it's just he got into everything and for some reason, he particularly seemed to like my underwear. ... Well, not like that... He likes to sleep in my dirty clothes hamper and..."

_My God, he's unconscious and you're still over-talking..._

"I guess he could have eaten my other clothes, but for some reason, he apparently loves my underwear."

_Why are you still on this?_

"Makes me wonder if he likes your underwear, too."

_Don't say underwear again!_

Sara let out a nervous laugh. "You know what? Long story short, Hank chews on stuff, and, as you can imagine, that's annoying because... He's just.. he's lucky he's such a cute dog, because he can get away with stuff that's all. ... Kind of like you, I guess. He really misses you, too."

She stood up to stretch her legs and stared down at his face. The right side of his face had taken the brunt of an attack, so Sara brought her hand up to cup and caress his left cheek.

That's when Grissom opened his eyes.

Sara stood dumbfounded at the sight of those blue eyes making an appearance after so long. While a slight smile crept on her face, it disappeared as she noticed a horrified look on Grissom's face. His eyes were wide, and looked frightened. Like he had seen a ghost. "Grissom? Grissom, it's me Sara. Are you OK?"

With her eyes still in contact with Grissom, Sara sat down. Grissom turned his own head to make sure his eyes never left Sara's face. His demeanor began to make Sara uneasy. Grissom tried to move his right hand, but the pain immediately struck him and he uttered a uncharacteristic moan.

"Shh," Sara eased as she gently put her hand on top of his. "Don't try to move it, OK? Do you need a pain pill? Do I need to hit your morphine pump?"

Then Grissom lifted his left hand to Sara's neck. His shaking hand slowly traced a line from one side to the other. Sara felt her skin prickle under his touch, a bit of electricity passed between them and she noticed his anxiety subsided as he touched her. He brought his hand to brush a strand from the side of Sara's head and traced small circles on her neck just below her ear.

Sara brought her own hand to meet Grissom's. He pulled his hand away and into her grasp. Sara felt confident to smile now. "Hi. Are you OK?"

Grissom smiled back, but did not say anything. She went to push the call button, but he put his hand upon hers again and squeezed. Sara turned again and leaned forward, which allowed him to once again reach up to Sara's face. This time he placed his hand upon her nape and pulled her closer. In response to his gentle prodding, Sara closed the gap between them, thinking he might want to say something.

Instead Grissom closed his eyes and kissed her lips. He opened his mouth and she felt his tongue brush against her lips. She pulled away slightly to see him open his eyes, smile and sigh. He pulled his hand away from her neck and laid back down.

Speechless. At least, she was outloud. But inside… _Did he just kiss me? What the hell? Why didn't I kiss back? Oh, right, it might hurt because his face is broken. He's still looking at me. Say something!_

Instead she held his left hand again. Suddenly, his attention went behind Sara, which broke her out of her daze to look behind her. Catherine stood there with coffee. "Did he just wake up?"

Sara straightened. "Yeah. They're not answering the call light. I'm going to get a nurse."

"Your coffee will still be here when you get back," Catherine said, as she sat down in the seat vacated by Sara, who hesitated for a moment before leaving to see Grissom watching her with a soft look on his face.

When she left the room, he closed his eyes and pursed his lips. Catherine figured he was in pain from his injuries. "Gil? How are you doing? How bad is the pain?"

Grissom opened his eyes and swallowed a couple of times, and with a raspy voice said, "Sara's OK."

Catherine let out a small, nervous laugh. "Yeah, Gil, she's fine. On edge because you've had us all worried, but she's fine."

"Not... She's OK. Thank God." Grissom slurred as he closed his eyes again.

* * *

Sara hurried to the nurse's station in a slight jog then spoke to his RN, who then paged the doctor with the news Grissom had awoken. Sara took a deep breath and tried hard not to let out a yelp. She felt elated because he was awake; sad because he was still so hurt; and confused because the crazy sob kissed her out of the blue. "God," she muttered to herself. "That was so fucking like... Grissom."

She walked back to the room, and stopped for just a second as a thought flitted in her mind. _What if he just felt like kissing everyone he saw when he woke up? If that's the case, I want to be there when he lays one on Greg. I hope it was for me only though, selfish as that may sound. _Leave it to her self-conscious to lighten the mood. She steeled herself before she re-entered the room, lest she find Catherine and Grissom in some type of lip lock.

But all she saw was Grissom laying down in the bed and Catherine sitting in her chair, legs crossed. One hand held a cup of coffee, while she used her other hand to run through her hair over and over. Sara walked over and Catherine turned around. "Hey, grab your coffee before it gets cold."

"Did he go to sleep again?" Sara softly whispered.

"I guess I bored him," Catherine said with a smile.

His twitching and labored breathing startled the woman. Without thinking, Sara, put down her coffee, went to his bedside and immediately put her hand on his arm and began to caress it. He opened his eyes and smiled while his breathing became even. A doctor came into the room with a nurse to examine him, so Sara and Catherine went to outside the room. Catherine held out Sara's coffee for the younger woman.

"Thanks."

"He'll be OK, Sara."

"Yeah. Yeah... I hope so... Cath... what did he say to you?"

"What?"

"When he saw you, and I left, ... did he say anything to you?"

"Oh. Actually he was happy you were OK."

"He was happy _you _were OK?"

"No, Sara, he was happy _YOU _were OK."

"What does that mean?" she muttered to herself. "Um… so… did he touch you?"

Catherine almost spit out her coffee. "Touch me? What do you mean, touch me?"

Sara let out a frustrated sigh. "You know... did he ... reach out to you?"

"Oh. No." Catherine replied outloud. Silently she thought, _He didn't try to kiss me like I saw him kiss you._

* * *

_TBC _

* * *

Many, many thanks to CSIGeekFan (who edits for photos of Torchwood, among others :-) and ELM22 (who is constantly supportive and encouraging).

And special thanks to all our readers and reviewers. Take care and, if you have the time, send some positive thoughts Chauncey's way. :-)

Thanks to Jem for fixing my newly formed dyslexia :-)


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Chauncey: I don't own CSI; Jean: I don't own CSI. Okay, now, we're clear on that.

A/N: In Chapter 11, there was a friendly "accusation" :-) that we were shamelessly promoting Coke products. Let it be known, that I believe one of the greatest drinks on the planet is a properly carbonated Diet Pepsi fountain drink. But because Jacob is acting like a dude from the outskirts of Atlanta, he had to show an allegiance to Coke. So I apologize for any impression of product placement. I do not own Coke or any of its affiliations, and truth be said, I felt ill after trying some of the "fresh" soda offered at the CC museum in Atlanta. However, for the Coke fans out there, I'm believe it is a lovely product and brings smiles across the world. Let's all get along and no matter what carbonated beverage we prefer -- Coke, Pepsi, RC Cola, Dr. Pepper, Shasta, Diet Dr. Wham -- let's just enjoy the acid that is slowly killing us all. :-)

A/N2: Like I said, I own none of that stuff. But if you've never tried Diet Dr. Wham, go to Alabama and do so. JB out.

Serious A/N: Nightmares and a slight rehashing of descriptions of violence.

* * *

**Chapter 12 **

* * *

When Conrad Ecklie entered the garage, both Nick and Warrick stopped him in his tracks. "WHOA!" They shouted in unison, although their voices slightly muffled. Nick walked up to Ecklie, whose olfactory senses were bombarded by a retched smell.

"Here," Nick said, as he passed a mask to Ecklie. "You might want to use this."

Ecklie put on the mask and followed Nick return to where Warrick stood. The two extracted a plastic tarp that was folded and put in a garbage bag and found in the white van Warrick spotted on the way back from Gerard's body dump. Blood, excrement, urine and vomit mixed on the tarp, which Nick and Warrick unfolded and laid flat on the garage's floor.

"Whoever loaded this up, folded it instead of rolled it," Nick explained. "If he or she had rolled it, there would have been this mix on both sides of the tarp."

"I'm guessing whoever moved it, didn't want to get any of it on himself. That's why he carefully folded it," Warrick suggested. "None of this mixture seeped out into the garbage or the van."

Ecklie looked at the tarp with disgust. "Have you made an identifications of who was inside the van?"

"We found prints on the inside, including the floor of the back and inside the side door. Some were in blood, and they all belonged to Grissom," Nick said. "We have blood samples from different surfaces in the van, including the floor in the back, the inside of the door and the floorboards of the driver's seat. We brought them up to DNA yesterday. We're taking samples from the tarp now."

"I don't know whose DNA is on the tarp, but I'm betting Gerard's blood will show up on the floor of the back of the van," Warrick said.

Ecklie motioned for Nick and Warrick to follow him outside the garage. The CSIs might be used to foul odors, but Ecklie wasn't and even with a mask, the smell was too much. Once outside, they took off their masks.

"What about the van's VIN?" Ecklie asked.

"Brass checked it out. The van was listed as for sale at a used car lot in Pahrump," Nick said. "Brass said they didn't even know the van was gone."

"So, the guy just drove it off and nobody noticed?" Ecklie said incredulously. "Any idea when it was stolen?"

"They think it was maybe last Tuesday or Wednesday," Nick said.

"Makes sense of the timeline. Sara told me about the call she got from that friend of Grissom's," Ecklie said. "We found his Mercedes in the parking garage at Buffalo Bill's Casino in Primm. No witnesses. No surveillance in the garage, but we did find a parking stub in the car with the time stamp of Thursday at 9 a.m. We didn't get much from the car, except blood near the driver's door... but that may come back as Grissom's DNA."

Ambush. The pieces offered a logical theory of what happened to Grissom on that Thursday.

"That call Gerard received while on the casino floor on Saturday?" Ecklie continued. "Archie isolated it and discovered it came from Grissom's home phone."

"Well, between the call and the time of death, that gives us a timeline we can work with," Nick said. "We're talking about a matter of hours before Gerard took the call and Gerard died and then not long before Warrick and Sara found Grissom."

"That leaves a lot of blanks to fill between Thursday and Saturday," Ecklie said.

Ecklie's cell alerted him of a text message. He checked it out and sighed. "Dayshift found a bullet at Grissom's place, and DNA off of it matched Gerard."

"So, Grissom's house is probably where Gerard was murdered," Nick said.

"Jesus," Warrick muttered.

"That's not all," Ecklie said grimly. "Ballistics matched the gun to one found at the scene. It's registered to Gil Grissom."

The finding upset the two men. "Wait a minute, Conrad," Nick said with is hand up. "You're not thinking that Grissom lured Gerard to his townhouse?"

"There's no way Grissom killed him," Warrick said.

"Listen, I catalogued Grissom's injuries at the hospital myself," Ecklie said, receiving slightly surprised looks from the men. "I didn't think Grissom would want any one from of his team doing that. He deserved a little discretion." Both men nodded in approval. "But, no, personally I don't think Grissom was involved in the murder of Phillip Gerard, but somehow the attack on Gil and Gerard's death are connected. And we need to figure it out and fast."

"Maybe the attacker was actually after Gerard, and used Grissom to get to him," Warrick said. "Have you asked Grissom what he remembers?"

"Catherine and Sara said the doctors and nurses were in and out of his room all day, and between those constant interruptions and the heavy duty pain medication he's on, he was completely out of it," Ecklie said. "Brass will formally question him tomorrow if Grissom is able. Hopefully he'll remember what happened."

"We'll finish up here," Nick said.

"Good. Keep me posted," Ecklie said as he left the garage and Nick and Warrick reentered it.

* * *

_It was like being underwater._

_There were blurred images, sometimes so dark all he could see were traces of movement. There were muffled screams, moans, pleas for mercy, but nothing loud enough or substantial enough to know where the sounds came from or who had uttered them. _

_Then like a pop in his mind, a vibrant, yet terrifying, image of death flashed in his memory. Sometimes the image was a still life, like a moment captured on film. Sometimes it was the sensation of electric pulses flowing through his body._

_He could feel his pulse quicken. He wanted the image to go away. He tried to force his mind to shut down; pull a shade; run away. But it followed him where ever he tried to hide. He would run faster, faster away from the images but the pain in his legs made him falter. He tried to grab the flashes of horror and throw it away from his eyes, but his swollen, broken, bloodied hands would not move. Then he could feel his lungs burning. Everything burned. He would try to scream but no sound left his mouth. Oh God, please I can't watch my mother flail in the throes of death again. Her body spasming against her bed sheets._

It was a little after 11 p.m. when his night RN came into Grissom's room for the hourly check. For the past two hours, her patient had been trying to get some sleep after a long day of evaluations. Although he snoozed during the day, deep sleep evaded him. Hopefully now he would be able to catch some z's.

She noticed the frantic way his heart rate increased on the monitor. She went to his bed side and suddenly his eyes opened. "Mr. Grissom? Can you hear me? Are you in pain?"

He worked to catch a breath, which gave the nurse pause again. Although she was ready to call for a code, his breathing settled. "That's the way, Mr. Grissom. Take slow even, deep breaths. You need to avoid a lung infection," the nurse said. "You're OK. The pain will come and go. You let me know if you need anything."

He didn't hear a word she was saying. His eyes closed again.

_He was underwater and drowning again. This time the images weren't blurred. They fell into his lap one by one. He was made to pick them up with his left hand. In front of him was a mirror. His face seemed to change as he looked at each photo, from younger to older. But his expression never faltered. Sadness, pain, emptiness, failure. The photos fell into his lap faster and faster, sometimes pieces of the broken bodies merged into the background. But he always recognized faces: the dead woman from Minnesota; little Todd Martinez, Suzanna Kirkwood, Mary Louise Grissom, Terri Miller, Sara, there were so many others. Faces from the slide show; faces from real life crimes he'd investigated._

_He didn't want to see the images anymore. His right hand connected with the mirror and was left raw, pained and bleeding. It wouldn't stop. The pain encompassed his whole body. His own blood covered his body._

_He looked up to see photo upon photo falling from the ceiling. Never stopping. The images stuck to his body because the photos were bleeding too. He crawled on the floor to try and extricate the photos from himself. He couldn't move fast enough and the photos kept falling, the images upon it screaming at him "FRAUD! FAILURE! MURDERER!"_

_He moaned as he thrashed about the floor, the taste of blood seeping through his mouth and attacking his nerve endings all over his body. It burned. It burned so much. He thrashed more violently and wished his cries of pain would silence the voices invading his mind._

It was the third hourly check for the nurse. While checking the IV, she noticed a tugging on the tube. Grissom was thrashing on the bed and moving his left hand wildly. She left the room to get the head RN in charge of their shift. The two of them checked his vitals. "Was he like this before?"

"I thought he was just in pain, I pushed the morphine pump for him," said the night nurse. "Mr. Grissom? Wake up Mr. Grissom!"

Grissom let out a hard breath and an agonized cry. He could not give voice to his experience.

"He's due for his muscle relaxers in a little while. We'll document this and let the doctor know what is going on when he's on rounds later this morning."

The pattern continued throughout the night.

Unbeknownst to anyone but himself, Grissom was reliving each and every moment McIntyre made him watch the horrendous videos during his captivity. He recalled each and every one of the unforgettable beatings he'd received every time he closed his eyes and only the memory of the unforgivable electroshocks could jolt him awake.

He was swimming through a sea of those still life images for hours. When he slipped into an unconscious state, then the images would spring to life again.

_He wished he could see his tormentor's facial features. He wished the mask would be pulled up just one time for a second; he would memorize that face. He could hear that evil voice and he knew it wasn't an amorphous being torturing his soul. It was a man killing people he loved. And he did so over and over. _

_Inside his head, he heard the tape click and begin. He saw his mother again. He hadn't heard her speak in years. But he heard her now. Her voice did not contain her deaf accent. It sounded like her voice he had heard before her hearing loss, at a time when he was a child and she would read him a bedtime story. _

_But now her voice was laced with fear, resentment. A tormentor was killing her. _Because of me,_ Grissom thought, _because I was her son. _He watched her eyes. He heard her voice. He couldn't turn away. This was his mother, the woman who'd given him life. She was dying before his eyes. _Because of me._ She was dying because of her own son. She thrashed so hard he could almost hear her bones cracking. She thrashed. She thrashed. She screamed. She thrashed. She died. _

_Click. It started again. _

_GILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!! Her wailing burned him. But he couldn't look away. This was his mother. _

_Click. It started again._ Please no. Not again. Please. Stop. _He had never said that before. Why didn't he say that from the beginning? Why didn't he say "Stop!" Would it have stopped if he had said that? But he couldn't look away. This was his mother. _

_He burned. His whole body burned. _

The hourly check was already completed. No one was in the room. No one heard Grissom as he cried and no one saw tears stream down his face.

* * *

TBC

* * *

Thanks to CSIGeekFan and ELM22 for the beta and support :-)


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: We've run out of silly things to say about not owning CSI; it's true, we don't. Bugga Bugga Bugga!

A/N: Nightmares and a little romance brewing...:)

* * *

Chapter 13

* * *

For the past three hours, Grissom tried to recall the exact details of what had happened to him. Emotionally, he felt the weight of infinite sadness. What made him recall those memories all at once? And why did his mind force him to watch his mother die? _She didn't die like that, _he would think. _It was a heart attack._ Terri Miller? _Could she have died in that manner? Is she even dead? _Sara? _I watched her death scene and it seemed so real, but I kissed her yesterday. She was real._

Did that man in the mask really exist?

His thoughts only made his heart break. He missed his mother more now than when she passed away months ago. The lingering pain of not being able to say goodbye crushed him, and if she'd died at the hand of the man who'd held him captive, then she had died because of him. He had so much he needed to say to her and it was too late.

As the minutes slowly ticked, Grissom kept his eyes open and tried desperately to keep his mind clear. Although he kept the images at bay, he could hear the faint moaning, grunts, screams and cries like a buzz in his ear. While he instinctively lifted his right hand to his ear, the pain of his hand, arm and shoulder reminded him movement on that side of his body was foolish. Despite the cumbersome IV tubes, he cupped his left hand upon his left ear, in hopes of muzzling the phantom sounds, even put one of his fingers in his ear, but it wouldn't stop.

He needed to get up. _Maybe if I move around, _he thought, _my head would quiet_. A faint light streamed through the blinds of the windows as dawn approached. Maybe they would let him brush his teeth and wash a bit this morning. He knew he needed help out of the bed to get to the restroom, but the incessant noise in his head prompted him to try and do it himself right now.

He shot his body upright, which left him breathless. His battered torso and back wanted nothing to do with the idea of moving. But as the pain shot throughout his body, for a moment the noises ceased. In that time, Grissom pushed his call button.

"May I help you?"

"I..." Grissom swallowed hard but tried to take deep breathes. "I need ... help, please. The... to use... Could I get some help?"

"Someone will be right with you, Mr. Grissom."

Since coming to the hospital, Grissom hadn't really thought of his physical predicament until that very moment. Here he was, alone in a mostly dark hospital room, on his back and in pain, while one leg hung off the side of the bed.

Beaten. He remembered being beaten.

After a few minutes, a male patient care tech with a pleasant smile knocked on the door. "Mr. Grissom? I'm Javier. I'm here to help you." He entered his room, and upon looking at Grissom, who stared off into space with one foot off the bed, Javier gave a short chuckle. "Trying to get up without help?"

Grissom broke out of his daze. "What... What day is it?"

Nonplussed by the question, Javier replied, "It's Tuesday morning, Mr. Grissom about 3:30 a.m."

"The 19th?"

"That's right, Mr. Grissom," he said. "You're scheduled for surgery for your hand in a few hours."

Grissom looked at the metal sticking out of his right hand. He wished he could remember what had caused the injuries. It had been throbbing all night. He had a horrible taste in his mouth and he felt filthy. "Is there any way I could wash..."

"I think I can help with that," Javier said as he lowered the head of the bed in order for Grissom to lay flat on the bed. He then helped the patient get his wayward leg back on the bed. "Give me a minute. Don't move, OK?"

Grissom nodded and Javier was out the door. Before long, Javier returned with a basin, a small bottle of mouthwash, toothbrush and paste, soap and several towels and washcloths. "Brought you some supplies. Now, let's get you up to sitting on the edge of the bed. OK?"

It was painful, no doubt about it, but it silenced the buzz to a point that Grissom forgot about it altogether. While his upper body felt like it was on fire, all conscious and unconscious thoughts he had were thrown out the window.

"Mr. Grissom?" Javier immediately recognized the look of blinding pain on the patient's face. "Hey, we're going to do the washing right here." Grissom began to protest a bit and motion to the bathroom, but Javier gently cut him off. "You've got a bum right side, from your shoulder all the way to your fingertips. You'll get a little dizzy with the sitting up, much less the walking, and you might not be able to catch yourself. " The young man's voice was in no way condescending, which made Grissom feel more comfortable. "Give yourself just a little more time. We'll get you on your feet soon. But for now, just relax, man. You'll be OK."

Javier went to the bathroom to fill the basin with water, and came back. He started washing Grissom's face and neck with the washcloth. He then gave a wordless signal that the privates were next. "I could help you, unless you want to do this yourself."

It didn't surprise the young man that the patient waved him off. But he did hear Grissom mutter something that was close enough to thanks for the tech. "I'll be right here in case you pass out or something."

Grissom used his left hand to soak one of the hand towels in the soapy water. He rung it out, and cleaned himself as best as possible without disturbing the catheter or drainage bag. After completing that, he placed the soiled towel into the plastic bag Javier held out. He thought the cool water would feel good on his legs, so he readied a new hand towel. But he couldn't bend over because of his ribs. He looked at the tech, and Javier just smiled, grabbed the washcloth and proceeded to clean Grissom's legs without a word.

"Thanks," Grissom muttered.

"No prob."

Grissom stared down at his legs and realized they didn't sustain the same abuse as the rest of his body. But he noticed dark bruising along his calves, and when Javier turned his left leg to see the other side, the bruise wrapped around to cover the back of his calf. The backs of his thighs also felt sore, although nothing unbearable.

A belt. He remembered being hit with a belt. His own belt. Repeatedly.

He could feel his heart beating faster as the thought triggered a fierce memory. The snap of the belt coupled with the slap upon his flesh brought on a nauseous feeling. He looked up and around and he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror. One side of his face looked like it was smashed in. He was lost in his reflection when he swore a man in a ski mask appeared in front of him and pounded his face so hard, Grissom fell backward.

Grissom didn't realize nor hear himself scream. But Javier did. "You OK?" The young man seemed frantic, but stopped when he saw Grissom half-lying on his back braced against the opposite siderail of the bed, staring in the distance and breathing hard. There was a haunted look in Grissom's eyes, and Javier realized his patient hadn't become dizzy but something has shaken him mentally.

"Let me help you finish up, Mr. Grissom, then we'll get you situated better in bed," Javier said. Grissom had started to sweat, so Javier again took the towel to Grissom's face and neck, careful of his wounds. Javier helped Grissom out of his gown, and cleaned Grissom's left side and both underarms as gently as possible. Other than the occasional wince and hitched breath, Grissom said nothing.

After putting on another gown, Javier put a small bit of mouthwash in a dixie cup and emptied one of the plastic bowls of its water. "Swish this and spit in the basin."

Grissom raised up a bit to spit; and his mouth did feel much better. With Javier's help, he was maneuvered back in the bed. The physical and mental exertion of the activity made everything labored and painful, Grissom swallowed and fought closing his eyes, an almost impossible task.

"Don't fight it Mr. Grissom," Javier said. "You can rest before your other surgery."

* * *

_He could feel the trail of her kisses going down his torso. His hands were covered in the long strains of her brown hair, as he looked down at her nude body covering his own. She was perfect. He pulled her back up to his mouth and their kisses became more and more heated. Sara sat up unexpectedly and her voice turned into the masked man: "She's still dead, because you couldn't or wouldn't help her," the man had said. "You should feel very guilty about that."_

_"Yes," Grissom replied. He saw Sara's tears while she sat in the car as he processed the body of Suzanna Kirkwood._

_"No, ya fucking don't." And Grissom could physically feel the burst of electricity run through his body again._

_The scene switched to a large bathroom with black and white checkerboard tile. A woman...Sara...was slumped in a pool of blood; her butterfly tattoo exposed between the hem of her shirt and her pants. Grissom hurried outside and Sara was standing behind Brass. Then Grissom was down on his knees shifting carpet fibers one by one in a long hallway, until he stood and opened the door to his mother's bedroom, where he watched helplessly as she silently screamed for help. _

_Terri Miller's dead vacant stare penetrated through to his unconsciousness. One moment they were sharing a glass of wine, the next, she was dead._

_Bodies of mutilated victim's of crime flashed one by one; Terri's body again, the hunched over body of Sara in a pool of her own blood, and his mother laying in her bed screaming for help that never came. _

He awoke with a start. His right hand throbbed, as did his head. Grissom began to hyperventilate. Did he hallucinate those awful things, or were they memories?

* * *

Sara Sidle had just solved another case. Not that she was ready to pat herself on the back, but it felt good to match all the clues and find a logical conclusion. The past hour was spent processing a break-in in which she theorized was the work of a rival boyfriend to the family's 15-year-old daughter. The case-breaker? A note she found sticking out like a bookmark in the girl's algebra book that read, "I broke into your house because you're dating that jackass Frederick. What kind of fucking name is Frederick? -- Jeff."

Oh, if only they were all that simple.

It was the third case of the night. At the beginning of shift, Catherine pulled Sara aside before she could get knee-deep in Grissom's case. Ecklie tapped Catherine to supervise the graveyard shift while Grissom was out. Sofia would become interim swing shift supervisor. Catherine wanted Sara to be the point person for existing cases and new ones that came in for the evening.

"Catherine... if you're thinking I can't handle working Grissom's case, you're wrong."

"Sara, it's not that. It's actually the opposite," she said. "I have to be on Grissom's case because Ecklie wants everything done by the book so when we do get this guy there is no wiggle room from mistakes. Warrick and Nick won't budge right now, and there is a lot to process. If you're out in the field handling everything else, I can put Greg in DNA for the time being."

Sara looked at Catherine critically. She couldn't decide if what she said was full of shit or just trying to look good in Ecklie's eyes again.

"Look," Catherine stopped to weigh her words carefully. She didn't need a scene from anyone right now. "I know you'll get things done right with the other cases. You are a professional. And when the caseload you have for tonight is clear, I want nothing more than your brain focused on what happened to Gil. We need all the help we can get, and right now..."

"It's OK, Cath. No really... I get it," Sara said, with a professional tone. "I think putting Greg in DNA is smart. Just don't leave me in the dark. Please."

"I won't. Here's what we have for tonight..."

So Sara was left to complete a case for Greg, which was not difficult since Greg helped process the DNA that evening; a homicide in which the skillful extraction of a fingerprint on the inside of the neck of a beer bottle allowed Detective Vega to get a confession out of the victim's drunk friend; and now the B&E. She walked to her car and put her kit in her trunk. When she sat down in the car, her cell phone rang. The caller ID displayed an unfamiliar number, although the 708 area code told her it was a Vegas number.

"Sidle."

There was a hesitation on the other line. Sara made sure the call was still connected and spoke into the phone again. "Hello?"

"Sara?... It's ... it's me."

"Grissom?" Sara looked at her watch: 5:37 a.m. "Are you OK?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm in my car. I'm leaving a scene, headed back to the lab." Sara turned on her engine. "What's the matter? How are you feeling?"

"I got beat up."

Sara closed her eyes for a second, and prepared to turn out of the driveway. "I know, Grissom."

"No, ... I mean... I remember that I got beat up." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "I'm not sure what happened. I didn't even know that it's Tuesday."

Sara tried not to get choked up. "We'll figure this out Grissom."

He didn't say anything to the comment. "Are you driving back to the lab? Are you close?"

"Yes. My scene wasn't too far away. Do you need me to come by the hospital?"

"No..."

"I don't mind Grissom..."

"No, I .. I was just worried you were driving by yourself."

His attitude caught her off guard, and she laughed at the statement. "I've been driving a long time, Grissom, and I think it's just me and early risers on the road," she laughed but noticed he didn't. "I'm fine, Grissom. You don't have to worry about me."

"Yes, I do," he said is softly but changed the subject. "I'm going to have surgery again this morning; this time to place an external fixator on the fractures in my forearm."

"Good."

"Sara... Do you know what happened to my hand?"

How do you tell someone his bones were broken, fingers were smashed and fingernails were ripped off? Sara was still at the hospital when Ecklie came to process Grissom. Ecklie noticed some adhesive residue on his wrists, so Grissom was bound during the abuse. But Sara said nothing, yet Grissom heard her loud and clear.

"That bad, huh?" Grissom's voice sounded tired.

"Yes, it is," Sara said, her voice just as tired. "When are you going for surgery?"

"I think it's at 8 this morning."

"I'll be there when you wake up."

"You don't have to do that."

"Yes, I do," her voice was soft. "I want to be there for you. And if you feel up to it, we'll talk."

"I'm sorry, Sara."

"What? ... for?"

"I just ... feel like I need to say that."

Sara was quickly unraveling. "Listen we'll discuss this later. You sound really tired."

"I do remember something else," Grissom said quickly.

"What, babe?" The endearment slipped out unconsciously.

"You... I think about you... I remember before I passed out, I thought of you."

Sara swore her heart skipped a beat. She also missed the entrance to the lab's parking garage. She quickly made a u-turn and tried to cradle her phone on her neck and shoulder. Woody's words to her echoed in her head_. "Well, aren't the two of you married or dating, I mean, he's crazy about you, he talks about you all the time."_

"Sara?"

"Yeah, Grissom. I'm here."

"I just..."

"Try to get some rest, Grissom. I'll be there after your surgery, OK?"

"Thank you, Sara." And Grissom hung up.

Sara pulled into a space in the lab parking lot. Once she turned off the engine, she lost what little control she had held inside while she talked to Grissom. She took deep breaths as she allowed tears to fall. After two minutes, Sara took a long deep breath. She closed her eyes as she exhaled_. I don't know what the fuck to do about this,_ she thought.

Enough of the other cases. She needed to work on Grissom's case.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Mucho thanks to our betas, Geek and ELM, and to all our readers. We hope you are enjoying the ride.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: Us? Own them? Yeah, right.

* * *

Chapter 14

* * *

"You found the confession where?" Catherine asked, as she stood at the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water.

"The girl's algebra book. I know it's a weird story Cath, but I kind of wanted to get caught up on Grissom's case," Sara said, tentatively accepting the bottle of water Catherine held out for her.

"If it's a funny story, Sara, I really could use something to laugh about."

Sara sighed. She understood, so she gave Catherine a moment to chill out. She told her about the look on the girl's face when she found the note, and the look on the mini Moriarty wannabe's face when Sara broke the news that his sinister plan was foiled. "He asked me, 'How did you possibly know where I stuck the note when my beloved, my very angel, never saw it?'" Sara said, punctuating the teen's dramatics with an impersonation of his snotty voice. "I said, well, I found it because it was written on bright pink paper and it stuck halfway out of the book. She didn't see it because, in case you didn't notice, the algebra book's spine was barely scuffed. She probably never opened it. You're at the end of the school year, and that book hasn't looked like it's been cracked open more than three times."

Catherine laughed at the boy's antics and she appeared to relax somewhat. Sara was glad. "So, now on to Grissom's case?"

Sara finished a big gulp of her water. "Yeah."

"Come on. The guys should be in the layout room."

* * *

There was tons of evidence, and yet none clearly indicated a culprit. The fingerprints they'd found were all Grissom's and the swabs of DNA were almost all Grissom's, but for one item: a set of earbuds. Some DNA came from Gerard, but the most damning, and frustrating, DNA was unidentifiable.

"The ear buds had Grissom's DNA on them? Any chance they got contaminated from another source?" Catherine asked.

"No, there wasn't a different source present," Nick said. "I found them in the glove compartment of the van."

"There's no way Gil would choose to use those things," Catherine said. "Not after the surgery for his hearing."

The comment stopped discussion, and Catherine heard the proverbial pin drop. All eyes were on her for an explanation, so she gave it: "Two years ago. I'm sure you all noticed he had a hearing problem and also I assume you noticed the problem went away when he grew the beard? He'd never use ear buds, but if he used anything, it would be full headphones. Can we move on now?"

"Hodges identified the substance on Gerard's body as human urine and Mia matched the unknown DNA from that earpiece to the urine," Greg said. "Warrick and Nick also found a blood pool in the driver's side of the van. It also matched the unknown DNA from the urine and earwax. For whatever it's worth the DNA is XY."

"Now we just have to find the son of a bitch so we can nail him," Warrick said.

They found Gerard without a wallet or ID and if it weren't for Sara's immediate identification, it may have taken much longer for a positive id.

Conrad Ecklie had been in touch with authorities in Oakland, California because there had been several charges from Gerard's credit cards. The police detective he'd spoken to had agreed to send any evidence or taped interviews should they catch anyone suspected of the crime of identity thief of the deceased Dr. Gerard.

Sara became engrossed with the graphic photos in the folder, each in its own evidence bag. "I recognize some of these photos. A couple of these are from Grissom's fish board," she said. "How did someone get a hold of these photos? They're from crime scenes; those are protected from public consumption."

Catherine nodded her head and then picked up two other photos, "You know. These are from two cases he worked years ago. This one was unsolved and this one," nodding to one where an abused woman, covered in bruises, "made Grissom really lose his cool because guy got off on a technicality."

"The two I recognize, both were really frustrating cases," Sara said. "And none of these cases in Vegas connects to Gerard."

"Maybe Gerard was never a target," Nick said. "The guy has Grissom for days and did God knows what to him, but according to our time-line for Gerard, the guy only had him for maybe an hour. I think Grissom was the sole target and he killed Gerard to torture Grissom."

"Gerard had to be a target," Greg said. "What were the chances Gerard would be in town the exact same time Grissom was taken? If the guy wanted to take someone to torture Grissom, it would have been easier for him to take one of us."

The statement made the crew pause, but not for long. "We've put a call out to Minnesota to check on any cases that Grissom and Gerard worked on that might have provoked this attack. Unfortunately, Gerard and Grissom were the only crime scene investigators who worked there then," Catherine said.

* * *

He saw it again.

_Black and white tiles. Sara held against her will; a masked man slitting her throat; Sara falls to the floor.__uttered some words._

And again. Black and white tiles. Sara hurting; Sara choking on her own blood; Sara dying.

And again. Black and white tiles. Grissom heard Sara's struggles and screams.

And again. Black and white tiles. Grissom knew that man's voice when he stared at the camera and

And again. Black and white tiles. Something was different. The man was no longer masked, his blond hair was thinning.

He awoke restless and sweating. It wasn't Sara, he thought. It must be just a dream or a suggestion...

* * *

Grissom's gaze wandered to the wall in front of his bed as he struggled to catch his breath. His eyes settled on the television, then traveled upward toward the ceiling. Then back to the television. _It was like watching a movie,_ thought to himself.

He brought his hand to his face. His face became pained, but not from physical injuries. He remembered the videos his tormentor had shown him for days and he realized for the first time: the body hunched over in a pool of blood on the checker board tiles wasn't Sara.

It couldn't be her. But his mother and Terri Miller were dead. But his mother died of a heart attack._ "This is one poison that dissipates from the blood stream after a short period of time. It will seem like she died of a heart attack to anyone perhaps performing an autopsy."  
_  
Those words. They were so familiar. He didn't kill Sara. But he did kill his mother.

He cried silently as the tears streamed down his face.

* * *

"Mr. Grissom? I'm Jayne, one of the certified wound care nurses here at Desert Palm."

Grissom had gotten his emotions under control after his last nightmare, but he was anxious and fidgety. Nothing seemed to make sense to him at the moment. Upon seeing a new person in the room, he shifted uncomfortably in the bed, but tried to be polite. "Hi."

The petite blonde smiled, cheerfully, "I need to clean your burns, re-apply the Silvadene, and redress the areas before your surgery this morning."

"Is it going to hurt?" Grissom's expression reminded the woman of her 4-year-old who was at daycare.

"Probably, but you're lucky. You've got a Morphine pump and if you hit it now, then you won't feel a thing."

Grissom nodded and clicked the button. He felt the slight burn as pain reliever spread through his system. In moments, he was asleep again.

The sleep didn't last long, but it was comforting to Grissom. Javier, who had helped bathe him earlier that morning, came into his room with a flat stretcher.

"Mr. Grissom, I've come to take you to surgery."

The transfer took several other patient care techs and a nurse to supervise so none of the IV's, catheters, or various other tubes where disturbed. Grissom grimaced in pain as they slid him from the hospital bed to the hard stretcher, but otherwise remained silent.

* * *

The surgeon carefully scrubbed his hands in front of a large stainless steel sink, not thinking about the surgery he was about to perform. His thoughts turned to the day, not so long ago when he thought his world had stopped spinning. His thoughts were interrupted by one of the surgical nurses as she stood next to him scrubbing her hands to assist him in the rather simple procedure. The brunette looked up to his profile and whispered, "Are we still on for tonight?"

The surgeon pressed his hip next to the young woman's as tightly as he could in the situation, and stage whispered, "Yes, I look forward to it."

* * *

The other CSIs had left to go home to get some rest before visiting Grissom, but Sara wanted to be there with him when he woke up from the latest surgery. Sara was still in the lab, pouring over the limited evidence in the Gerard murder. She couldn't believe Grissom had anything to do with Gerard's murder, and she personally wanted to castrate the man who'd tortured Grissom. She decided it was best to look over the evidence again with clear eyes and realized it was almost time for Grissom to be in recovery from the new procedure to repair his forearm. She quickly slipped into Grissom's darkened office; turned on the lights and just looked around the room.

The room seemed so quintessentially Grissom: the messy desk covered in unopened mail and file folders; the metal shelves bearing experiments pushed back until Grissom probably couldn't even remember what it was pertaining to; framed insects and newspaper clippings; plastic evidence bags tacked to a bulletin board bearing bones or bullet fragments.

Sara felt safe there. Some of her fondest memories of the man who had intrigued her for so long were associated with this office. But along with the fond memories, there were some not so fond. She decided not to think of those as she quickly shuffled through his mail: pamphlets taunting upcoming seminars, packages from many companies with whom the crime lab did business; letters and resumes from prospective employees; one enlarged white envelope from an address in Minnesota, that looked a lot like an invitation to something; catalogers; newsletters and a couple of magazines, one forensic-related and one Sports Illustrated.

She picked up the magazines and a catalog for Grissom. Something told Sara to take the envelope from Minnesota to the hospital in case it was something personal for Grissom. Maybe it might cheer him up.

She held the mail in her hand, sighed and turned off the light and closed the door softly behind her.

* * *

When Grissom opened his eyes. He could tell he was laying down on something rather hard and was in a large, airy room surrounded by the beeping machines. But he could also hear the voice of a man, so vaguely familiar, the voice that was misquoting Shakespeare and the sound of feminine laughter.

Grissom raised up on his right side, calmly quoted the quote correctly, "The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good," before collapsing back down on the hard surface and passing back out.

But not before another thought floated into his head. It wasn't Sara. It was her.

* * *

Time had clearly passed when Grissom woke up again. Gone was the large room and beeping machines. Instead when he looked to his left he saw the spiky dirty blond hair of his former DNA tech, who was staring back at him with wide eyes.

"Sara's gonna kill me," Greg said in a hushed tone. "Go back to sleep Grissom, Sara wanted to be by your side when you woke up, but she had to go pee..."

Grissom closed his eyes.

* * *

Jacob McIntyre rolled over in the hotel bed, jarring his right arm, as he attempted to answer the ringing phone at his bedside. The bedside clock blared the numbers 1:23 in red. He saw it was light outside through the dark curtains that didn't quite close and realized it was daytime.

"Mr. Braid, this is Melissa at the front desk. The pizza you ordered is at front desk."

"Thanks Melissa. See ya in a bit." He hung up the phone, rubbed his face with his left hand, reached for his wallet and saw he still had plenty of cash to pay for his dinner.

He staggered to his feet, popped a handful of Vicodin into his mouth and opened the door to the early afternoon sun, still dressed in his boxers.

Halfway between his room and the office, McIntyre reached to stuff the money into his front pocket and stopped, let out a frustrated grunt of pain and turned around. "Shit," he mumbled.

"Forgot my fuckin' pants."

* * *

"Sara? Are you here?" Grissom's voice was weak.

"Yes."

"I'm glad," he said as he snuggled deeper into a cocoon of warmth.

* * *

It was dark outside and he was alone the next time he woke up. He was frazzled and disoriented. His head pounded and his mind went in a thousand directions. He pressed the call light to see if Javier was working again so he could dial the phone for him.

"Hiya Mr. Grissom. What's up?"

"I'd like to try to call my mother." Even as the phrase came out of his mouth, it sounded absurd. But he had to make the call.

"Sure, what's the number?"

After Javier dialed the number, including the area code for Marina del Rey, the young Hispanic man handed the receiver to Grissom, who took a deep breath and listened as someone picked up on the other end. "Cliff's Bar and Grill. This is Nick. How can I help you?"

"Hang up, Javier. Wrong number." The young man did. "Would you dial it again?"

When he got, "Cliff's Bar and Grill" again, Grissom knew his mother's old phone number was no longer in service and the monster had killed her for real.

Grissom's mind could no longer process what was real and what was imagined. But then a thought made him more disconcerted: maybe he imagined nothing. Maybe Sara was dead but he still watched her die. She was alive and visited him in the hospital, but he could plainly see the blood surrounding Sara's body as he and Catherine processed the crime scene when he closed his eyes.

_No. That's ridiculous. Get a grip, Grissom._ Sara was really alive, but his mother was gone. And not the way he believed and was told seven months ago.

And, apparently, Terri Miller was dead, too. _Wasn't she?_

"Javier, dial this number for me, 702-555-0252." When Grissom heard the gruff, "Brass," he politely nodded to Javier, who left the room.

"Jim, it's Gil...I'm... I'm fine. ... I need some information on the death of Terri Miller...Yes, the anthropologist that I went out with a couple of years ago... Yeah... I don't know. I just... Could you check it out?...OK, see you tomorrow...Bye."

* * *

About a half an hour later, his nurse slipped into the room to do her hourly assessments. She found her patient to be asleep in the midst of a nightmare, thrashing a bit, calling out the name, "Sara."

After noting his blood pressure and oxygen saturation levels, and checking for any bleeding or oozing from the new fixator on his forearm, she reached in retrieved the beeping phone that was cradled in his non-fixated hand and hung the phone up.

* * *

TBC

* * *


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: See any of the chapters before this one; I'm sure there's an appropriate one somewhere.

* * *

Chapter 15

* * *

_Catheters suck. Really, really suck._

But on the bright side, the pain from the removal of the indwelling catheter kept Grissom's mind occupied to a point where he didn't think about his torture at least for a little while. The nightmares and memories still followed him whenever he let his mind drift from a conscious thought. He found it ironic that simple pain became a respite.

"That went quite well, Mr. Grissom," Javier said after tossing the used catheter into a red bag for proper disposal, removed his latex gloves and scrubbed his hands. He helped Grissom into another striped hospital gown before helping him back up into the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Hungry." The word came out as a reflex. He should be hungry since he hadn't eaten in... _When was the last time I ate?_ He thought. _I remember getting in the Mercedes and thinking about popcorn. Why would I think about popcorn this early in the morning?... The marathon... I was going to the coaster marathon._

"Hey, Mr. Grissom? You hear me?"

Grissom looked at Javier, who was familiar with that look on the patient's face. "You zoned out on me there. You OK?"

"Today's... Wednesday?"

"That's right, Mr. Grissom."

"I don't think I've eaten in a week."

"Well, you did have an NG tube for a while that fed you a nice liquid concoction," Javier said, with a smile. "But you probably want something more solid and substantial. I'm going to see what I can get you."

About an hour later, Jim Brass knocked on Grissom's door. Unsure if he heard an answer, Brass walked in to find Grissom sitting on the edge of his hospital bed. His right hand was immobile and so was the look of disgust on his face.

"Hey there, Grumpy. Where are the other six dwarfs?"

"I don't know. Check under bed, maybe."

Brass laughed and pulled up a chair by Grissom's bed. "How you feeling this morning?"

Grissom laid his head back. "I... I haven't been sleeping. But... I was hungry this morning."

"Oatmeal's harmless. What's the problem?" Brass took the unused fork and dipped it into the now cold and hardened oatmeal, tasting a bit.

A ghost of smile appeared on Grissom's battered but healing face as Jim tried the oatmeal.

Brass understood why he found Grissom with the look on his face when he first walked in. "Jesus Christ. Who puts salt in oatmeal?"

"I thought the same thing."

"Well, I thought you might like something homemade, so I brought you some scrambled eggs. Nothing greasy, but I did make them myself." Brass got up and retrieved the sack he brought with him. He took the bowl of oatmeal off the plate and spooned eggs onto it.

Grissom grabbed his plastic spoon with his left hand. Between his facial injuries and using his opposite hand, Grissom looked slow and awkward, but Brass said nothing. Grissom would put very little on his spoon because he didn't want to spill any of the eggs and he couldn't open his mouth too wide.

Jim tried not to be obvious as he looked at the metal seemingly growing out of Grissom's forearm and hands. An elongated rod ran along the length of Grissom's forearm anchored by three metal percutaneous pins which were braced by bones grafts. Brass thought it sort of looked like the Bionic Man. A fixator of the same type lifted the three fingers which had been savagely broken by his attacker. There were three sling-type supports for the broken fingers as Grissom would be unable to move them in order for them to heal sufficiently to regain movement and function.

After four bites of Brass' famous whipped eggs, Grissom stopped and took a sip of cranberry juice from a straw. "Thanks... Jim." Grissom had noticed his friend looking at the metal fixators, but found he didn't feel uncomfortable with the policeman's scrutiny.

"Any time, buddy," Brass said. "Gil, do you remember calling me late last night?"

Grissom leaned his head back. "I don't know..." Grissom's head started to pound, he remembered asking Javier to call his mother, but sure that had to be a dream. She's been dead for months. "What did I ask you?"

"You wanted information about Terri Miller's death."

_Oh God, _Grissom thought, _all that wasn't a dream._

"Gil," Brass asked. "She was reported missing over a month ago. There's nothing to suggest she's dead."

Grissom laid back and closed his eyes. His left hand shook slightly as put it against his throbbing temple. "She is dead."

"How do you know that?"

Grissom opened his eyes, his voice took a pained, frantic tone. "I know it. There are pictures... Did you find photos at my scene?"

Brass put his hand on Grissom's forearm. "Gil, calm down. Why don't we start at the beginning."

"PHOTOS! Did you find any goddamn photos at my scene?"

"Yeah, we did. But Gil, you've got to calm down and let's just start at the beginning."

"Were there any pictures of Terri among the photos?" Grissom's anxiety increased. "What about my mother?"

"Gil... they were crime scene photos..."

"I know what they were... I saw them over and over. It just... GODDAMIT!" Grissom pounded his left hand on the tray table.

"GIL! STOP!" Brass kept his arm on Grissom's. "You're my good friend, Gil, and I'm here for you. But right now, I'm also the lead detective on your case. Now, if you're not ready to talk about this, just say the word. But if we're going to talk about the case..."

"I'm sorry," Grissom interrupted, his voice considerably different. "I'm sorry, Jim. No. I'm ready."

"You don't have to apologize, Gil. I just need to know if you're ready to talk about this."

"I am."

Jim patted Grissom's arm, then sat back down. He retrieved a notepad and pen from his coat pocket. "All right. Tell me what happened in Primm."

"I made it to the parking garage. I was going to go to a rollercoaster marathon."

"Were you going to meet someone there?"

Grissom paused for a moment. _Yeah, _Grissom thought. _Woody._ "Ah ... A fellow rollercoaster enthusiast."

"Woody?"

"How did you know?"

"He was concerned about you being missing, so he called Sara asking where you were," Brass said. "You might want to ask her about that later."

"Oh," Grissom said, not catching the slight smile on Brass' face. "Well... I went to get my briefcase to put in the trunk, and someone came up on me with a gun. The gun was stuck in my chest but I could tell it was only one man. He had ski mask, gloves. I couldn't see anything about him. We struggled; he hit me with the gun, but I got in a few punch but I don't... remember much... I must have passed out."

"He took me back to the townhouse...," Grissom continued, slowly. "I remember the garage and he beat me with my belt... He told me to go inside."

Although Brass didn't want to stop Grissom, he could tell either the memories were fuzzy or too painful to remember. "Take a some juice for a minute, Gil."

Grissom sucked on the straw for a moment then paused before he continued. "Inside the townhouse... He really beat the shit out of me. I know that, Jim. I feel it. I still... I can't remember what he did to my hand. I asked Sara what happened to it."

His gaze went to his right hand. He finally realized only that morning that three of his fingernails were gone. "It's like getting caught under a wave. An onslaught of different moments flood over me and all I can do is scramble to the surface to catch my breath. But... all I can remember are photos and the visions in front of my eyes."

The shrill of Jim's cell phone interrupted their quiet conversation. Jim retrieved his cell from his pocket and checked the caller ID. "Gil, it's Catherine. Let me take this and you take a little break."

Grissom nodded, laid back and watched Jim step outside his room. Grissom sighed and noticed a small stack of magazines and a piece of mail Sara brought him the day before. He picked up a forensic magazine but put it back down when he thought about how difficult it would be to turn the pages. Then he spied the envelope and its return address: Pine City, Minnesota.

He turned the envelope over and laid it on the tray table, and slipped his fingers under the flap. Inside was a wedding invitation, and a note.

_Dear Gil,_

_I hope this note finds you well. Trisha will be 23 later this year and plans to finish her bachelor's degree in fine arts. She's marrying a nice boy she met in while volunteering with Build-a-thon for Habitat for Humanity. They hope to travel overseas together to teach English as a second language in Japan. She's accomplished more in her young life than I had every dreamed, and I know she will only accomplish more._

_I hope you do not mind me sharing Trisha's achievements. I know you are a humble man, but I just want to thank you for allowing me to witness all these wonderful moments in my daughter's life. Were it not for you, I would have missed my baby girl growing up into a wonderful, young woman. Thank you for her life._

_God bless,_

_Eleanor Johnson_

Grissom held the note in his hand. A distraught look cloaked his face as the 18-year-old memory flooded him.

_He and Phillip Gerard were coming back to Minneapolis from a bug-riddled crime scene in rural Pine County. Grissom drove. Phillip had the ability to write legible notes while riding in a car. A cassette tape played on the stereo of the car. While the opening strains of Prokofiev's "Dance of the Knights" played, Gerard lifted his head._

_"Gil, when we get to Pine City, stop by a bank. I need to get some cash. You don't mind, do you?"_

_"Not at all," Grissom said._

Grissom mind flashed forward_._

_The couple entered the bank loudly and immediately put the older guard out of commission by pistol whipping him. As Gerard's student, Grissom could understand the wordless communiqué from his mentor. Get in the best position. Watch for weakness. Don't endanger hostages. Keep calm. Stay smart._

_Although the two thieves hadn't taken notice of Gerard and Grissom, they began to intimidate and randomly abuse the other customers inside the bank. Their tactic soon escalated. The mother tried to shield her daughter, the little girl couldn't have been any more than 4 years old._

_The woman -- she looked high on drugs and violence-induced adrenalin -- seized the child. The girl didn't utter a sound but the look of terror on her face spoke volumes. The woman placed the gun against the child's neck and laughed while she said she would pull the trigger. Grissom, a 30-year-old protege of Gerard, knew there was no time to waste for that little girl._

_From the odd angle the robber held the child, Grissom aimed for the woman's midsection. The single shot was fatal. The woman fell to the ground, and left the child sprawled out on the floor beside her. The girl was terrified, but otherwise unharmed._

_Grissom caught the mother's eyes as she scooped up her little girl off the ground. He was in a daze when he approached the fallen woman. He stooped over, brushed her hair from her neck and searched for a pulse. Gerard's words at that moment filled Grissom's head: "A hell of a day for a side trip, huh Gil? Just remember, Gil. Sometimes the shot has to be fatal."_

Grissom put down the note and covered his face with his left hand. What was worse? Not remembering or remembering?

Brass came back inside to see Grissom a bit pale and with a pained look on his face. "Gil? You OK?"

"Phillip was there... at the townhouse. He's dead."

Brass took a deep breath and sat down. "We found his body, but not at the townhouse. He was dumped off Highway 15."

Grissom caught the tear that leaked from his eye. "He... shot him in front of me. In my living room."

"Who did, Gil? Why was Gerard there?"

"Because of Dale Danley. I shot her during an attempted bank robbery." Grissom's voice was soft and full of regret. "I had no choice, Jim. She was going to kill a little girl. She's getting married this summer." Grissom lifted up the wedding invitation.

Brass wrote some notes as Grissom spoke. He couldn't understand his friend's train of thought, but there was enough there for Brass to research. "Can I see that, Gil?" Brass asked of the card in Grissom's hand. ""I'm going to check this out, OK?"

"Dale Danley had a partner. I can't remember his name... Why the hell can't I remember his name?"

"I'll find out," Brass said, his voice soft and sympathetic. "You've been through a lot, Gil, why don't we stop for now..."

"Did you ask Catherine about the photos?" Grissom's anxious voice returned. "Did she find photos of Terri? My mother? Sara?"

"There were no photos of Terri Miller found," Brass said. "Nor of your mother or of Sara. Gil, why do you keep bringing them up?"

"I watched them die," Grissom said, his voice distant and cold.

"Sara's not dead, Gil."

"I didn't mean to say... Sara... I meant... I watched him kill her. And Terri... and... my..." Grissom couldn't finish the sentence. His thoughts were a jumbled mess as he stared at the antiseptic green walls of his hospital room, then floated up to the television, as he had before. Again, visions of death filled the screen, only the screen was in his mind.. "Jim... did you find a video... a DVD... a computer... something..."

"We found a laptop..."

"He used that," Grissom's voice went louder and higher. "He used it to show me photos and the home..." Grissom began to feel nauseous.

Brass could tell this was too much for his friend. "Gil. Let's stop."

"I don't want..." Grissom nauseous feeling coupled with his pounding head. His whole body felt on fire. He skin became flushed.

"Enough, Gil. I'm going to get the nurse."

When Brass left, Grissom felt agitated and in pain. A nurse came in to evaluate Grissom's condition. "He needs to rest. If you stay, just let him rest."

Brass acknowledged the nurse politely. "No. I should go," Brass said, putting his hand on Grissom's shoulder. "Gil. I'll be back later."

Grissom tried to lie down, but he knew if he closed his eyes, he'd just face more nightmares. "Jim. Wait. Please. Go back to my crime scene; it's got to be there. It was horrific... Oh God, ... Jim, the bastard killed my mother."

Jim Brass stared at his friend and tried to comprehend what exactly was going on as the nurse tried to calm Grissom down, "Mr. Grissom, you've got to lie down and rest," her voice was gentle, but Grissom's agitation only increased.

"Jim, please. I know there is one."

"I will, Gil. I will," Brass said, trying to help the nurse calm him down. "Lie down, Gil."

"Do you need a sedative?" the nurse asked.

"Yes." Grissom's conflicted subconscious might have been yelling, "Are you fucking crazy?" but his body spoke up. For the second time that day, a word left his mouth as a reflex. The nurse calmly placed a needle into his arm containing benzodiazepine.

It didn't take long for the sedative to take affect. Grissom felt like a great weight shoved him into a state of unconsciousness.

* * *

A phone call woke him from his slumber.

"Mr. Braid? It's Melissa with your 10:30 wake up call."

McIntyre grimaced and coughed before he spoke on the phone. "Well, thank ya' darlin'. I'll be seeing you in a bit to check out."

Having paid cash in advance for the room, McIntyre left the motel without a fuss, although Melissa did insist upon giving him a slight hug when he left. As he exited the dingy lobby, he heard Melissa's cell phone ring. The young woman answered her phone not giving her friend, Mr. Braid another look. But he watched as her face lit up with excitement when she said, "Debbie! Where are you? Yeah. After shift it's time for the road trip!" He stopped in his tracks and let a slight memory slip through, but he had to quash that right now. He'd enjoy that memory a little later.

His arm no longer throbbed and after sleeping for two days straight, he felt he was up for the drive back to Vegas. _I have unfinished business to attend to,_ he thought with a smirk.

The short cab ride to the bus station left him with plenty of cash for the $32 fare for the two hour/40 minute ride from Barstow to Las Vegas. He sat down with a pop from the vending machine in a far corner and just watched as people milled about the waiting room.

"Passengers to Las Vegas please prepare to board."

McIntyre had just exited the bathroom when he heard the announcement. A smile grew on his face as he walked through the station, left hand in his pocket and right arm bent slightly at the elbow and close to his chest. He boarded the bus and took a seat in the middle of the bus. Fortunately, the bus was half full leaving McIntyre to stretch out and let his mind wander.

He still didn't know what had happened to Grissom, or where the man was, but McIntyre believed with the beating he gave the older man, Grissom might still be in the hospital. And that would give him plenty to time to finish what he started almost a year ago. It was too funny that the girl at the front desk had reminded him of the first act of his play to drive Gil Grissom insane. It had almost blown up in his face, but in the end it was one hell of an amazing day.

_Debbie Marlin had just pulled into her driveway and had been getting her groceries out of her car as McIntyre watched from his own van. If he timed things just right, the case would fall under the preview of Grissom's supervision. He smiled. This chick looked so much like the woman Grissom lusted after, __that it was a shame to let the opportunity pass._

_He drug the kicking and screaming woman into her bathroom, then subdued her with a small bit of the curare, not enough to kill her, but just enough for her to lose consciousness for a while. He set up the necessary equipment. McIntyre wanted to put on a good show for Grissom. He set up the video equipment to record the gruesome execution of the woman, who was nothing but a pawn in his game for psychological dominance over the man that had killed Dale, who he loved more than anything else in the world._

_When he was ready, McIntyre grabbed the knife and sliced the woman's throat. Then remembering that he would show this video to Grissom sometime in the future, he waved toward the camera._

_That's when he heard the sound of a door slamming and a voice broke into the eerie silence of the single person dwelling. "Debbie? Where are you, darling? I hope you are ready for me. Naked and wet, only for me."_

_McIntyre heard the man as he moved room to room through the house looking for Debbie. When the bathroom door finally opened, to reveal the dead woman to the man, McIntyre made his appearance known to the man. He hit him on head with the butt end of his gun which immediately knocked the man out._

_McIntyre wasn't prepared for this, someone else entering the house as he murdered the woman. He knew he had to kill him and get rid of the body because the woman was the focus of this; not this man who suddenly appeared. McIntyre was about to pull the trigger on his revolver and shoot the already dead man, who had sustained a fatal severe head trauma, when it happened again._

_"Debbie? Darling, where are you?" Another male voice broke the silence of the house. _

_McIntyre looked at the hunched over body of the woman. "Looks like you were you a fuckin' slut, there, bitch." He left the bathroom hurriedly with his camera equipment. But he left the bodies of Debbie Marlin and Dr. Michael Clark for the next lover to find._

_McIntyre hid in a room near the bathroom. As he heard the sobs of the older man when he discovered the bodies. As the man wept in the bathroom, McIntyre listened carefully if the man would use the phone to call the police. Instead he saw the man standing over the body of the dead man. McIntyre saw the look on the man's face. He knew calling the police was the furthest from that older, taller man's mind._

_He retreated back into the room and McIntyre noticed the trinkets of jewelry shaped in the form of butterflies and he smiled again. "Fucking butterflies. Couldn't have thought it up myself eh?" he laughed to himself. "Oh yeah, Grissom's sure to freak out over this."_

_McIntyre picked up one particular bracelet that immediately broke when he touched it. He was going to pick it up and heard the man again. McIntyre thought about killing the man, but he concealed himself again and got a good look at what the man was doing._

_The rage this man possessed fascinated McIntyre. He watched as the man meticulously took apart the male victim piece by piece. The precision, the intensity. It made McIntyre feel like he was watching a macabre opera for his own, personal benefit. McIntyre loved every minute of it._

_After a good bit of time, McIntyre simply hid out of view and waited for the man to finish. McIntyre still thought of killing the second man, but thought twice. What a strange twist all this is, he laughed to himself. I have a fall guy. So, he decided to let the man live. _

_So, several hours after the second man came through the front door, he left slamming the door shut for the final time. McIntyre roused himself up off of the floor where he'd been napping to see what damage the older man had done to his crime scene. When he walked into the black and white checked bathroom, he found only the woman's body. The man's was missing. McIntyre quickly did a grid search of the house and found nothing of the man he'd killed only hours before. _

_McIntyre returned to the bathroom with bleach in hand and cleaned every inch of the room, excluding the body. When he was done, he thanked his lucky stars for the older man's presence, but wondered what the man had done with the other man's body. But he decided it wasn't worth his effort to worry about it._

It turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Grissom and his team became so fixated on the older man who'd been doctor as a suspect that McIntyre sat back and enjoyed the show.

He knew Grissom stayed 16 hours straight in that house and debated whether to destroy the man there, but something told him he could do better. And boy, did he.

But it wasn't perfect. _Nothing is perfect until you finish the job,_ McIntyre thought before falling into a blissful sleep while sitting in an almost comfortable seat on the bus.

* * *

TBC

* * *

Thanks to Margaret and Esther...:) and to all of you who have stuck with us: Thank you very much.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: I know, I said Friday. But hey... we got anxious. :)

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

* * *

Chapter 16

* * *

Jacob McIntyre walked through the bus station carrying his small carry-on bag. He stopped in his tracks and paid particular attention to a young, blonde woman boarding a bus and carrying a toddler. His breath caught in his throat when he'd first seen her. She looked so much like Dale, he felt a wave of physical pain pound through his body. He experienced raw hatred for Gil Grissom again and vowed silently to himself that the man would die this time around.

McIntyre looked around for any police activity as he hailed a cab. He knew there was no way he could be associated with Grissom's disappearance and subsequent torture; but it never hurt keep up a vigilance for signs of trouble. He could always switch into his "southern gentleman" role in case someone approached him. He looked forward to returning to the townhouse so that he could finalize the end of his elaborate scheme on the man who had ruined his life and taken from him what he had so desired, his beautiful Dale.

But first he needed to get to the house he rented some two months ago. There he could guard against anyone mistaking him as blonde-haired, blue-eyed Jacob McIntyre. Amazing what color contacts and a theatrical beard and hairpiece can do for a man.

* * *

Seven hours had passed before Grissom awakened from the sedative. His eyes opened and he was immediately disoriented. _Wednesday? Was it still Wednesday?_ The last thing he remembered was talking with Jim, and yet now, he was alone in the room. He looked at the clock. He wondered if he would see Sara today. He wanted to see her. He wanted to talk to her. He really wanted to hold her hand.

"Mr. Grissom?" said a nurse who had knocked when she'd entered his room. "I'm Aimee, your orthopedic surgeon's nurse. How are you feeling this afternoon? The doctor is going to coming by to check on your progress in a few minutes. He's reading over your chart right now."

Grissom nodded and recalled a moment of coherence from his operation. Someone incorrectly quoted "Measure for Measure" by Shakespeare. And that voice was eerily familiar.

"Excuse me," Grissom said, his voice still plagued with exhaustion. "What is the surgeon's name?"

"Dr. Vincent Lurie," the nurse said, as she checked Grissom's blood pressure. "You're fortunate he was on call when you came in. He's one of the best in the state...."

Although the nurse continued to speak, Grissom heard nothing after the name was uttered. _Debbie Marlin; not Sara Sidle. _Now he would have to face the man connected to one of those videos. When he heard the voice misquote the Bard, his mind focused on that black and white pattern. That recognizable pattern. Grissom remembered the interview with the esteemed doctor while his lawyer did most of the talking. Grissom recalled the dejection he personally felt when Dr. Lurie left the interrogation room. All of the evidence pointed to the doctor; but they were unable to pin the murder of the young nurse on him. _Debbie Marlin; not Sara. Thank God, not Sara_.

Gil felt a weight of sadness and failure land solidly on his chest, for so many reasons. And then he heard the knock on his door; it was opened slowly as the familiar older grayed-haired man entered.

"OK, Mr. Grissom, nice to see you, again. Neither situation has been particularly pleasant." Dr. Lurie said as he approached Grissom's bed. "But I need to check the fittings on your fixators."

Grissom nodded. He had never felt more awkward in his life. It was the first time he'd seen Lurie face-to-face since the Marlin case. Ironic couldn't begin to define the moment, as far as Grissom was concerned. As Lurie gently touched his forearm and fingers, Grissom flinched. "I'm sorry. You're still sore. I'm trying to be as gentle as possible," Lurie assured.

Again, Grissom nodded. His silence only fueled the tension in the room. He wasn't sure if the nurse and doctor could feel it, but Grissom could.

He had been so sure Lurie had murdered the young nurse and her lover in a fit of jealous rage. He would have bet his career upon it. But he was wrong. Dead wrong.

"Dr. Lurie," Grissom said, breaking the silence in the room, "I owe you an apology."

Lurie stopped and looked down at the patient. The nurse wondered what was going on, since she had a feeling her presence was acknowledged neither by the doctor nor the patient.

"Why is that, Mr. Grissom?"

"I know you didn't kill Debbie Marlin."

Lurie looked shocked, but he tried to compose himself as he talked to the attending nurse. "Uhh, Aimee, do you mind giving me and Mr. Grissom a moment alone."

The nurse seemed a bit shocked herself, but she kept her professionalism as she discarded her gloves in the red bio-hazard disposal container. "Of course not, doctor. Please call me when you are ready to continue on your rounds."

"Thank you," Lurie said. He waited until the nurse closed the door before he turned back to Grissom. His professionalism and mood were clearly shaken. "How dare you bring that subject up in front of someone else!"

"I'm sorry, I ..." Grissom stammered. Despite seven hours of sleep, his nerves were shot and his face and body ached. But he just felt the need to clear the air at that moment. "I... just... I wasn't thinking..."

"What prompted that statement, Grissom?" Lurie interrupted tersely.

"I know it wasn't you. I have nightmares, and I can recall what happened... to them and to me," Grissom said, as he measured his words. "The man who did this to me also killed Debbie Marlin. He showed me his homemade movies of Debbie's death. He showed them to me repeatedly."

Lurie swallowed. He recalled how he had found Debbie's lifeless body and the body of Michael Clarke. Now, the man who had accused him of killing her knew he hadn't.

"I thought Michael Clarke had killed her and somehow she wounded him fatally," Lurie said. "Are you telling me someone else murdered them?"

"Yes," Grissom said. "The person who killed both Clarke and Marlin was the man who kidnapped me. Beat me. Left me like this. I didn't know who it was while it was happening. But I think I know now."

Lurie felt so many different emotions at the moment. Old rage burned for Grissom for for accusing him a year ago and now new rage because here he was dredging up that nightmare. "You came after me like a common criminal even though there was no evidence I killed her," Lurie said, venom in his voice.

"I understand the evidence now," Grissom said, his voice laced with humility.

"Well," Lurie said, as he paced the room, "good for you."

Grissom could have argued. If he hadn't been so convinced of Lurie's involvement, maybe the real killer could have been caught and Grissom wouldn't have gone through hell. Grissom had been so sure of Lurie's guilt. Had it been Lurie's own conceit that lead Grissom to suspect the surgeon of the crime or did Grissom break his own cardinal rule and work to have the evidence fit his own theory?

Perhaps he should have let the subject go, but his head pounded, almost demanding him for more answers. "You found their bodies, didn't you?" Grissom asked. "But you dismembered Michael Clarke."

"It's not a crime in the state of Nevada to dismember a dead body," Lurie said. "My lawyer assured me of that."

"That's true. But it doesn't answer the question."

"Is this an interrogation, Mr. Grissom?" Lurie said as he approached the bed. "Because if so, you should truly wait until you are healed before you begin another fight."

"No, it's not an interrogation, doctor," Grissom said, fatigue plaguing his voice. "It's two men talking about a moment that changed their lives forever."

Lurie was an arrogant man, and his previous experience with Grissom led him to believe the man was a tenacious nemesis. But at that moment, Lurie realized he had an upper hand upon Grissom, and he was surprised at how bittersweet the moment felt. Lurie pulled up a chair, but didn't face Grissom as he spoke. All the sudden, his own sadness overcame him. "I found them both. I could tell by the way Debbie's blood was coagulating in a pool around her body that she was killed first. And... I knew, I thought Michael had killed her and she'd fought back, injuring him fatally. I honestly thought he'd killed her."

The doctor clasped his shaking hands in his lap. "I've never experienced rage as I did at that moment. I knew she had dumped me for Michael, and I hated him for that. But when I thought he killed her, too. ... It enraged me, Mr. Grissom. I wanted to eviscerate him."

As twisted as Lurie's logic was, Grissom could understand. Just as he understood the pain Lurie must have felt when Debbie Marlin rejected him, he now understood the rage against someone who did had possibly killed the love of his life.

Lurie shook his head. "My lawyer told me not to tell the police anything about me being at Debbie's place, finding the bodies or dismembering Michael. He said nothing I could say would help in solving the case and you wouldn't find any evidence linking me to her death."

Lurie stood. It was his turn to ask a question that burned in his own heart. "Why did he do it?"

Grissom took a breath. "To make me believe he murdered someone I love."

Lurie looked down at his hands. He had seen the woman who visited Grissom, and she had an uncanny resemblance to Debbie. "I see."

After a moment, Lurie truly looked at Grissom. He looked physically in pain and mentally exhausted. "He made you watch a video of her death? You watched her die?"

Grissom closed his eyes. "Dozens of times."

An atmosphere of humility encompassed both men. Lurie approached Grissom's bedside again and put a hand on his shoulder. With a somber face he said, "Apology accepted, Mr. Grissom."

Unbeknownst to the men, two women stood outside the door eavesdropping and both were stunned by the revelations they had overheard. Sara and the nurse, Aimee, heard every word of the two men's conversation. Aimee had closed her eyes while she listened to them. Sara merely stood there spellbound.

Aimee, who was Dr. Lurie's new love, spoke to Sara. "You do look a lot like Debbie. Vincent loved her and somehow, after her death, he came to love me. Please don't let your man destroy mine."

"He's not mine."

"Oh yes he is." Aimee said over her shoulder as she walked off toward the nurses' station.

Sara pushed into the hospital room. Both the patient and the doctor heard the door open. As quickly as Lurie put aside his professional demeanor once the nurse left the room, he quickly returned to his stoic role as physician upon seeing Sara's presence. "I need you to relax, now, Mr. Grissom. Your chart states you haven't been sleeping well and you are in pain. I'm going to bring the nurse back in. We need to discuss your pain management and care for your fixators before you are released from the hospital, OK?"

Grissom acknowledged the change in Lurie's behavior with a nod and a word of thanks. Lurie left his side and gave a sad smile to Sara as he left. Sara felt the man size her up, and she shivered as he gazed into her brown eyes, then smiled weakly as he left the room in search of his nurse.

Sara said nothing, but her look of concern and confusion spoke volumes. "Hi. I ... I thought I'd see you before I went into work. But I can go..."

"No. Please... Can you stay for a while?"

Sara approached the left side of his bed, took a seat and rubbed gentle circles on top of Grissom's left hand. "Yeah. Sure."

She didn't move several minutes later when Dr. Lurie and Aimee returned to the room. The examination and subsequent instructions on the proper care for the external fixators took about ten minutes.

"You'll have the fixators for about six weeks, Mr. Grissom," Lurie said. "I will see you again in my office for routine check up in a week's time. Aimee will schedule."

Sara continued to hold Grissom's left hand and Lurie looked into Sara's eyes again for a moment before leaving and left the room without further comment.

The room stayed quiet for a while. No one bothered entering Grissom's room, and for once he found himself relaxed, on the cusp of slumber, without the anxiety of a nightmare hitting him. He knew the reason why. Maybe he should voice it.

"I .. like holding your hand. Thank you, Sara."

He spoke so low, but his voice was sweet and honest. Grissom glanced at her face and squeezed her hand. Sara simply smiled and squeezed back.

_I should have said love,_ he thought. _Next time._

She might have seemed calm, but inside Sara experienced another "WTF" moment. Sara had a knack of being on the other side of a window, or in this case, a hospital room door, when Grissom had a heart-wrenching conversation with Dr. Vincent Lurie, only this time she wasn't alone. Lurie's new girlfriend heard their confessions as it were. Sara didn't feel quite so alone anymore. Grissom seemed to be changing.

_He kissed me. He thought about me when he was being beaten. When he watched Debbie Marlin die, he thought he witnessed the death of someone he loves. He thought Debbie was me. Oh, God. And now he says he likes to hold my hand. What the hell am I supposed to do with that, Gris?_

She let him rest as she processed those thoughts and that question in her mind_. Work. It had always served as our buffer._ She wondered if she should break the moment.

A knock at the door answered the question for Sara. Both Grissom and Sara glanced at the door to see Ecklie standing at the entrance. "Is it OK to come in, Grissom?"

Sara tried to take her hand out of Grissom's, but he refused to let go, in fact he gripped it a bit tighter. "Hello, Conrad. Come in."

Ecklie stood at the right side of the bed and smiled at Sara. "Sidle. You've been here long?"

"She's visiting me, Conrad," Grissom said. He relaxed his grip on her hand somewhat, but still didn't release it, as if he didn't care that Ecklie witnessed a moment of intimacy. In fact, he thought it would be a good thing for Ecklie to know that things had shifted between the two criminalists. And if Ecklie didn't like it, then he could get over it.

"I got here about 20 minutes ago," Sara said. "Did you need to talk to Grissom alone?"

With a perfect poker face, Ecklie surveyed his two employees. Sara looked almost terrified by the display. _Sidle frazzled. Very funny, _Ecklie thought. Then there was Grissom with his battered body, including his right hand that looked like a swollen, mangled mess that might fall apart without the metallic apparatus. Ecklie couldn't fathom what happened to his associate. He doubted if he could have endured the same mental and physical torture as Grissom had experienced. Yet Grissom's eyes, they were bright, alive.

_Let him be. Let them figure it out. He's a victim of a crime right now, not a pain-in-the-ass entomologist. I knew he was attached to Sidle, but this takes things a little further than I had thought._

"No, Sidle, you should stay," Ecklie said. "I am here to discuss that issue Brass talked about with Grissom earlier. Sidle, are you up to date on those issues?"

"Yes," Sara said. She even knew a little more about the phantom DVD from the conversation she overheard from Lurie. "Grissom, you mentioned to Jim there was a disc with movies on it, do you remember that."

_How could I forget? _"Yes. Did you find it?" His eyes lost some luster, and an anxiety returned in his voice as he glanced from Sara to Ecklie.

"There was a disc among the evidence, Gil," Ecklie said. "But there were no video files on the disc. A power-point and several photo files."

Grissom let go of Sara's hand and rubbed his face. Both Sara and Ecklie could tell the subject agitated him. "There's another disc."

"OK. OK. Then we need to find it," Ecklie said. "Gil, we also found out information about the bank robbery from 18 years ago."

Grissom fidgeted uncomfortably. "I remember Dale Danley's name, but I can't remember the name of the partner..."

"Jacob McIntyre," Ecklie said, he retrieved the photo from 18 years ago. "This McIntyre fellow did 15 years at Stillwater Prison in Minnesota, mostly thanks to you and Phillip Gerard being in the right place at the right time. He was a model prisoner, earning his undergraduate in psychology while in jail. He was released three and a half years ago where he enrolled in master's degree program at the University of Minnesota with a GPA of 3.98. He was working as a clinical psychologist at a treatment center in St. Paul. He took a sabbatical to go down to Central America and no one has seen him in the last year. Do you recognize him, Gil?"

Grissom looked and his mind went completely blank. "That's the man who was involved in the bank robbery, but the person who attacked me wore a mask. I never saw his face."

"There is no DNA on file for McIntyre, but we were able to track down a sibling," Ecklie said. "She's willing to submit a DNA sample for the investigation. Seems there's some bad blood between the siblings."

This was news to Sara. "When do you think we could get it?"

"I talked to her before I came here," Ecklie said. "I think we might be able to get it by Friday morning. I'd like the processing to be done in our lab to assure we could get the warrant ASAP."

"Did she say anything about her brother?" Sara asked.

"The family was old money from the timber business and when Jacob became associated with the woman, Dale Danley, then the family disowned him. They haven't heard from him since before his incarceration," Ecklie said. "She seemed especially disturbed by what happened and asked what she could do to help."

Grissom remained quiet as Ecklie and Sara went back and forth. He wished he could remember something, anything, about McIntyre. He could see Dale Danley as vividly as dark storm clouds over a crystal blue ocean. He could see images from his torture in technicolor. But McIntyre? It was as if his image, any memory of him, was locked away in a mental vault.

"You getting tired, Gris?"

Grissom looked at Sara. "I'm just trying to remember McIntyre. Nothing is coming back to me."

Conrad stood up. "I'm going to get going, Gil. You staying, Sidle? I could walk out with you."

Sara caught the hint in Ecklie's voice and stood up herself. "No, I need to get ready for my shift."

"I'll meet you at the elevators. Take care, Gil." Conrad nodded at them and left.

Grissom took advantage of the moment of privacy, and grabbed Sara's hand. "Thanks for coming to see me."

"Sure. Warrick said he might come before shift later," Sara said as she used her free hand to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "I should go check on Hank."

Grissom smile morphed into a look of concern. "Oh, Sara. I forgot you had him. I... I'm sorry. He hasn't been too troublesome, has he?"

Sara laughed. "He and I have been OK. Does he...," Sara shook her head. "Nevermind."

"What?"

"Another day. But I think I'll stop by the townhouse to get more supplies," Sara said.

"Of course. You still have the key?"

Sara recalled the last time she had to use it. She had to close her eyes for a second, but tried to hide her emotion as best as possible. "Yeah. I still have it. We used it when... I'd better go."

She couldn't hide it. Not from Grissom. Before she could pull her hand away, he raised her hand to his mouth and sweetly kissed the top of her hand, letting his lips linger a second longer. "You've done so much for me..."

"That's what friends are for," Sara said softly, pulling her hand back close to her body.

"Right," Grissom replied.

"You rest."

"I will. Thank you."

"Bye Griss."

* * *

Sara went to the elevators a few minutes later and found Ecklie still waiting for her. "Sorry."

"That's OK," Ecklie said as he pushed the down button. "Sidle, what do you think about this DVD business that Grissom keeps talking about? You think he's imagining it? I mean there was a power-point presentation on that disc we found that he could be mistaking for a movie, the way the images move so quickly."

"No, I believe him, Ecklie," Sara said. "He keeps mentioning Terri Miller and his mother. I just think there might be something else."

The doors to the elevator opened and Ecklie motioned for Sara to enter first. "I'll get someone from days at the townhouse tomorrow to see if something was overlooked in their investigation. But we may never find this."

Sara hoped that wasn't the case. Maybe she might make sure she got a look at the townhouse herself.

* * *

TBC

* * *


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: See previous chapters, I'm sure we explained the fact that CSI and it's characters are not ours. I know it breaks Jellybean's heart, but unfortunately it cannot be helped. Dang Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, Alliance, and Paramount.

* * *

Chapter 17

* * *

The next morning, Sara took Hank over to Grissom's townhouse. She had run out of the hard kibble and the soft canned dog food Grissom had left with her to feed the beast while he was gone and she knew from reading over the inventory from the CSI search of his home, there was plenty of food there for Hank.

As Hank jumped out of passenger side of her Prius, he took off running toward the neighbor's house, snarling at the man who was attempting to unlock the front door. The man had a look of terror when Hank became suddenly very vicious and almost bit the man, before Sara came running up and pulling at his leash to pull the dog off the man.

"Hank, heel." Sara commanded sternly, but Hank continued to growl at the injured man. "I'm sorry about the dog. I'm not sure why he's growling at you."

"Is that Grissom's dog?" The man asked, not exactly politely, but amicably.

"Yes." Sara said. She took stock of the man. Average height, average build. Immaculately groomed brown hair, brown eyes and a well-trimmed beard. But his clothes seemed a little wrinkled, and he held his right arm close to his chest.

"Where is Grissom? I haven't seen him lately."

"He'll be home this afternoon. He's been in the hospital."

"Really? Injured at work was he?" The man's irises enlarged as Hank let out another vicious bark.

Sara pulled again at the leash. "No, someone attacked him, you weren't questioned by the police... Mister?"

"Braid. I've been gone for the last several weeks, my sister was ill and eventually passed away with ovarian cancer."

He finally unlocked the front door of the townhouse next door to Grissom's.

"I'm sorry for your loss and I'm sorry Hank has been growling at you." Sara spoke as the door closed in her face as the man vanished inside. She held a critical look on her face and pulled at Hank's leash again. "Come on, boy. Let's take you home and get you something to eat."

Once Hank was under control, Sara dialed a number on her cell. "Ecklie? It's Sidle. ... Yeah, I needed to grab some stuff for Grissom's dog at his townhouse, and I ran into his neighbor next door... Yeah, he's finally home. Said he was away for a few weeks," Sara said as she struggled with the dog. "You're stopping here this morning?... No, he doesn't seem to be going anywhere. ... OK. No problem."

When she finished the call, Sara took a deep breath and unlocked the door to Grissom's townhouse. She had a brief flashback from when she and Warrick had found his badly bruised and battered body, but she steeled herself against the onslaught of emotions.

Hank still attempting to careen toward the neighbor's townhouse, while she quickly unlocked the front door. Hank flew into the living room when Sara released him from the leash, the dog jumping up and down off of the dining room chairs then scooting and flipping over while sniffing at everything in the room. Sara watched the dog as he laid down on the small rug next to the breakfast bar and did the "happy dog" dance on his back. The sight of the dog made her smile.

"Okay, Hank. Let's get you fed." Sara walked into the pantry and found a nearly full twenty-five pound bag of kibble and stacks of the large sized canned dog food Hank preferred, while the dog happily re-explored his home. She whistled for Hank when she was finished with the food and he came bounding into the room with one of Grissom's tennis shoes in his mouth. Sara laughed, scratched the dog behind one of his ears as he ate and said, "I see you like his shoes, too, huh, boy?"

She decided to do a little light cleaning in the house since she knew the dayshift team that had searched for evidence had hardly cleaned up after themselves. There were remnants from black fingerprint dust on most of the surface spaces through-out the townhouse. It was pretty easy to clean up, especially since she knew a trick or two. Sara wanted Grissom to come home to a clean home since she knew he kept it pretty uncluttered from her many visits to pick up or drop off Hank. She also wanted it to look like home to him and less like a crime scene.

She'd never really had the grand tour of the place as it were, but she knew the basic layout of the place. She drifted out the kitchen door into the garage. The traces of oil were still on the gray concrete as she'd seen the night when they'd found him.

She looked around the garage looking at the carefully arranged banker boxes on the shelves. Each bore a year, month and a brief description of what was in box. For example: "1998: July. San Francisco lecture notes." She smiled when she'd spotted that one. It was when the two had met. There were approximately 50 or so boxes. She looked until she found one that suited her needs without compromising Grissom's much guarded privacy.

"1987: December. Various Minnesota."

Sara took a deep breath and pulled the box out from it's resting place on the shelf. She decided to take the box inside to the dining room table.

She was tired. She hadn't really slept since well before Phillip Gerard had been found in the desert by the hippies, Chance and Colleen Crawford. Hank ambled up with the same tennis shoe from before and sat down at her feet, happily chewing Grissom's shoe. Sara yawned, stretched out her back and arms, then opened the box. She didn't know what to expect, but on top of the pile was a folded and yellowed newspaper with a handsome, young Gilbert Grissom staring back at her with sad, soulful eyes. The headline read, "Local law enforcement stops bank robbery."

Sara scanned the story which recounted the tale of two Minnesota criminalists being caught up during a bank robbery. Phillip Gerard and Gil Grissom had been inside the bank when two armed robbers began their attempted robbery. When a child's life had become endangered, Grissom had killed one of the armed robbers in a bank while saving the child's life. _No wonder he hates to carry a gun_. Dale Danley, the woman who Grissom had shot during the commission of the crime, had been Jacob McIntyre's partner in the aborted bank heist in Pine City, Minnesota.

Sara sighed and paused for a moment. To know something that happened 18 years ago was haunting Grissom made her shudder. A madman was punishing Grissom for doing what was right. Sara felt rage against McIntyre. _If I come face to face with the son-of-a-bitch... I might kill him. _

She continued to shuffle through the many file folders that held a variety of articles on insects and a few personal pictures. One was of Grissom, Gerard and a woman Sara assumed was Grissom's mother, since the woman was a good bit older and she and Grissom shared the same intense blue eyes. The three were arm-in-arm, smiling animatedly into the camera. Another picture was of the same woman signing the universal "I love you" with her hands. It finally fell into place for Sara. Catherine had mentioned Grissom's surgery, she remembered Grissom's struggle with Gerard in the courtroom during the movie star's trial. His mother was deaf. It made perfect sense.

Sara got up to put the box back in the garage, went to check the bathrooms and bedrooms. Warrick agreed to stay with Grissom for a week after he would take him home from Grissom being discharged from the hospital later this afternoon. Sara quickly cleaned Grissom's personal bedroom and bathroom and the guest room with cleansers from beneath the sink in the bathroom.

The beds had already been stripped, so she located fresh sheets and a comforter from the hall closet. When she finished with her task, she looked around at the spartan furnishings in his bedroom. _He must only use this room for sleep. Nothing else._ There were no personal framed pictures or nick knacks on the bedside table or on the bureau. Just a lamp, digital clock, and a black slim-line telephone on the bedside table. There was nothing but bare walls covered tastefully in a dark navy blue paint and heavy dark curtains covering the windows.

She moved into his home office, which was in sharp contrast to the austere bedroom. The office was an extension of Grissom's office at the Crime Lab. It even smelled the same to Sara. As she quickly rifled through the magazines on the desk, she laughed when she spotted the newest edition of "Playboy." It amused her to no end that Grissom had a porn stash; even if the magazine was more tasteful, than smutty.

She heard Hank barking downstairs. He seemed very agitated, so Sara reluctantly left the office to see Hank barking and scratching at the floor right behind the large screen television.

"Whatcha see, boy? Did you find one of those racing cockroaches under there?" She bent down and saw nothing. Sara had very long arms, so she pushed the dog out of the way and reached blindly behind the television. She didn't feel anything and was about to get up when Hank began barking again.

"There's nothing there, boy." But the dog was determined and began to scratch with his paws again. "Hey, stop. Grissom's not going to like you digging up his carpet. I'll look again, okay?" The dog almost nodded and he appeared to be smiling.

Sara got down on her knees and reached her hand as far back behind the large screened television as she could. She swiped along the floor, feeling nothing, so she decided to run her hand along the rim of the base of the TV set, that's when she touched the cold compact disc. It was lodged vertically against the back of the large boxed base of the TV.

She hurriedly went the kitchen pantry and found a pair of gloves used to wash dishes and a box of plastic sandwich bags. She lay down on her stomach and stretched out until she reached it, again. She brought it out from behind the TV, making sure she gripped its outside edges so she wouldn't endanger any possible fingerprints on it. Noticing it was not a commercial DVD, Sara hoped it contained the "home movies" that Grissom had been so adamant about. She carefully placed the disc inside the bag, sealed it and went back to Grissom's office. She found a black sharpie marker and wrote information on the bag.

Sara examined the disc through the bag and other than the manufacturer's markings on the front of the silver disc, there was nothing unusual about it. No scuff marks on the top or the bottom of the disc, nor did she see anything else that stood out to her naked eye. She couldn't ascertain if there were fingerprints on the disc.

Hank had followed her to the office and looked up at her with baleful eyes. She bent down and kissed the dog on the cheek. "Hank you probably solved this whole mess. You're a great crime dog, McGruff. Like daddy, like dog. Let's just hope this isn't some bootleg porn Grissom may have accidentally lost."

She scratched the large animal behind the ears in the manner in which he loved for a long time until she heard the doorbell chime. Sara straightened up and went to the front door to find Conrad Ecklie holding his kit in his right hand.

"Hi, I'm Conrad...Sara? What are you doing...? I'm at wrong townhouse, aren't I?" He blushed.

"It's easy, they all look alike," Sara let Ecklie inside. "You're not going to believe what Grissom's dog found. I think it's the disc Grissom's been talking about. I put it in a baggie to preserve any possible prints."

"Where was it?"

"Lodged vertically against the back of the TV," she said.

"Can I have it?"

Sara gave the baggie to Conrad, who put it in his kit. He then smiled when he saw the large boxer stick his nose out from behind Sara. "He's a handsome doggie isn't he?" Ecklie's voice changed from his regular intonations to one of an almost child-like voice. Hank licked his hand.

"So this is the beast that's been eating your underwear?"

Sara blushed. "How'd..."

"Hodges."

"Figures."

Both laughed. When Ecklie spoke again, his voice became serious. "If you and Grissom want to start a relationship, then I'll do my best to deflect any possible backlash from the higher-ups."

Sara didn't say a word as she watched Ecklie continue to pet the dog. Ecklie had stunned her. _How did he...?_

_Well, she didn't say thanks, but she didn't dispute the idea either. Good luck with her, Grissom._ Ecklie thought but said, "I'm going next door to talk to the neighbor. Did he give you his name?"

Sara simply replied, "Braid."

* * *

"Mr. Braid? I'm Conrad Ecklie with the Las Vegas Crime lab. I need to ask you some questions in reference to your neighbor, Gil Grissom. May I have a few minutes of your time?"

"Yes, of course." He ushered the criminalist into his sub-let townhouse.

McIntyre knew the Sidle woman would call in re-enforcements, in fact, he'd expected it. He almost wished he'd killed her instead of the Marlin woman and her lover. But he could never quite get close enough to Sidle woman because she was too insulated at work and she was too infrequently at home. McIntyre would follow Sara for a run, and she'd have that stupid dog who McIntyre was sure sensed his presence. Grissom's dog had always bothered him.

_I'm gonna kill that fuckin' dog along with Grissom._

Jacob McIntyre laughed to himself as he watched the bald man set the aluminum case down and sit on the sofa. Then he mentally prepared himself into slipping into his 'James Braid' role, and unconsciously straightened the wig that he wore.

"Mr. Braid, do you know your neighbor, Gil Grissom?"

* * *

After having returned to her apartment with Hank in tow on his leash and carrying a cumbersome 25 pound bag of kibble, Sara slowly opened her front door. She sat the bag on the floor and released the mutt. Hank shot into her living room, in much the same manner he had earlier at Grissom's townhouse. He jumped up onto her desk chair, then off, then began the 'happy dog dance' again. She noticed the red light blinking on her answering machine.

"Hey, this is Catherine. I didn't want to call you on your cell in case you were still working and I wanted you off the clock. Grissom's leaving the hospital sometime this afternoon and Greg suggested we get him a new sofa and desk chair since they are both in evidence. I'd like you to go with me down to the furniture warehouse and help me choose something appropriate for Gil's place. I haven't been there in a while and you have, so... Anyway, all the guys chipped in, even Ecklie slipped me a hundred and the sheriff donated two bills, so we got about a grand. We can find him something nice for that price. Meet you at the warehouse on East Cheyenne Avenue at noon. I know the owner, so we can have it delivered before Warrick takes him home. See you then."

Sara looked at the small clock on her desk wedged behind the police scanner and her laptop. It read a few minutes after 11. Sara sighed and grabbed her keys. "Sorry Hank," when he rushed to the door. "This is a just me trip, but I'm going to pick you out a nice new couch for your house."

* * *

Ecklie left the Braid residence about twenty minutes later. Conrad had worked in the Crime Lab for more than 15 years and had solved his fair share of cases along the way. He usually went straight by the book in all matters, worried that invariably he might miss a key piece of evidence in any given case. He never let his personal feelings get in the way of a case, but after leaving the townhouse of Grissom's neighbor, he felt he'd been played like a Stradivarius by the man claiming to be James Braid.

He would relay his findings to Brass when the police captain come to work. Maybe Brass could compel Braid to come down to police headquarters and make a formal statement. Ecklie knew Brass' interrogation techniques might break a few of the man's strings.

Right now, Ecklie had nothing on the man.

* * *

TBC

* * *

Everyone say a prayer for Jean's family; her father passed away earlier this week.


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

A/N: Beware all readers: the fluff will kill ya in this chapter. (Oh, Chauncey. You know they will love it.) But beware of the end of this chapter.

* * *

Chapter 18

* * *

Grissom watched as the door to his hospital room slowly swung open. No one had knocked but he didn't think the wind had blown it open. When it fully opened, no one was standing on the other side. Grissom could see a picture on the wall opposite from his room. He'd always liked the Impressionist period, and the copy of Monet's "Water Lilies" was good. That's when he saw the gray hair poking around the corner of door. Grissom smiled. He'd wondered if he would visit.

"Woody, come on in. I won't bite."

The pudgy older man straightened up and walked hesitantly into the room. "I was worried 'bout you, Gil."

"Sara said you didn't win."

"You weren't there. I tell you what, that asshole gets worse every time he wins. They shouldn't even let him in our country. The dickhead."

Grissom laughed wholehearted as Woody continued to bellyache about the marathon, but he felt the pain from some of the injuries on his torso and back.

Woody noticed immediately Grissom was hurting. "Gil, you need a nurse or something?"

"No, it just hurts when I laugh."

Woody looked at him skeptically, but continued with his story of the antics of the man from England who'd beaten Woody's 60-hour stint on the coaster. "I'm telling you, Gil. The longer I was on 'The Desperado,' the more worried I got about you. It's not like you to miss something like that."

"I was unavoidably detained."

"That's an understatement. Gil, the son of a bitch that beat you, have they caught him yet?"

"No. But they are pretty sure who did it. I'm sure he'll be found soon."

Woody accepted his calm assurance without qualm and changed the subject. "You're a liar." At Grissom's startled expression, Woody continued, "You lead me to believe there was something going on between you and Sara. Then I found out you're nothing more than co-workers. You didn't have to lie to me."

Grissom shook his head. "It wasn't like that. I was trying to talk myself into believing it. If I told you, then maybe I could really ask her out. But it was more complicated than all that."

"Man, it's OK. I was yanking your chain. She's a pretty woman though."

"Yes, she is."

The wound care nurse who had changed his bandages before his surgery came into the room and interrupted the two men. "Hi, Mr. Grissom, I need to instruct you in the proper care of your burns and to properly change the bandages for when you are discharged later this afternoon. Is your friend here going to be able to help you when you go home?"

"He's just visiting..."

Woody spoke up, "The next marathon is at the end of next month. The New York, New York. You think you'll be able to manage it?"

"If my doctor takes these things off of me by then." Grissom gestured at the fixators.

"Man, you look like freakin' Frankenstein."

The nurse cleared her throat.

"Okay, little lady, I'm gone. Gil, I'm glad you're alright."

The nurse began peeling back the edges on one of the bandages as Woody slipped out of the room.

* * *

Catherine stopped her brisk pace when she heard Brass call her name. They were both walking briskly in the halls of the lab until they reached their destination.

"What did you get, Conrad?" Catherine asked as she and Brass sat down in front of Ecklie's desk.

"From the neighbor, not much," Ecklie took out his notebook. "James Braid. Average height. Average build. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Beard. Original residence Medford Park, Georgia. Sublet 1857-A Plum Poet Place three months ago. But he told me he's spent the last couple of weeks in Georgia caring for a sister dying of ovarian cancer."

"You check it out?" Brass asked.

"Well, he gave me a name -- Corrine Messing -- who did pass from cancer a couple of days ago. But he added that he 'considered her like a sister' and was not related," Conrad said. "She had no next of kin. Her body was donated to science. And he stayed at a friend's house and guess where the friend is?"

"Out of town and unable to contact?" Catherine said. "This guy's not right. Anything else about him we could check?"

"He had his arm in a sling. Said he hurt it when he was out of town," Ecklie said.

That caught Brass' attention. "How did he hurt it?"

"Bike accident. What are you thinking, Jim?"

"Someone else's blood was in that white van," Brass said. "We checked out Gerard's credit card charges. We should check insurance charges. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"We circulated McIntyre's photo to ERs in Arizona and California. He might have avoided hospitals altogether. Most walk-in clinics won't take you unless you have insurance," Catherine said. "And we've found no activity from McIntyre."

"I'll call Judge Mixon to subpoena Gerard's health records," Jim said.

* * *

It had proven to be more difficult than he had imagined transferring from the hospital wheelchair into Warrick's SUV. Grissom hadn't been able to bend well and it sent sharp pains throughout his body. Warrick apologized as he tried to help as best he could, but Grissom's injuries prevented a smooth transition into the vehicle.

As they made the short journey to Grissom's townhouse, Grissom wondered if Warrick purposely took every curve as sharply as possible. But he knew Warrick wouldn't do anything like that. It was simply any type of jarring movement sent a short bolt of pain through his body.

Grissom slid out of the truck when they arrived and he felt ill at ease as he noticed a neighbor's curtains flick open. He hated being on display and he felt goosebumps raise on his arms. Grissom wanted to hide when a wave of nausea hit him. Warrick rushed to his side of the truck when he saw Grissom become dizzy and lose his balance slightly. The neighbor closed his curtain quickly when Warrick appeared by Grissom's side.

Warrick helped Gil up the concrete steps to the front door of the townhouse and unlocked the door quickly. Grissom hesitated as he passed through the now opened doorway. He could smell the disinfectants and traces of Febreeze in the air.

The room didn't look the same as when he left it the night before he was scheduled to be in the roller coaster marathon with Woody. His kitchen table, which had piles of entomology textbooks and notes for a journal article he'd been working on for several months, now looked clean and a vase of flowers stood in the center of it. His living room was spotless whereas before it was merely scattered with glasses, plates, newspapers and open DVD cases. Looking around the neat, fresh room, a person would not guess the trauma and horror that had occurred here just a week before.

Grissom continued to hesitate in the doorway as Warrick went about turning on lights throughout the darkened dwelling. Grissom looked over toward his big screen television as an uncontrollable tremor ran through his body. Grissom took one step into his living room, but stopped when he closed the door behind him. A deep sigh escaped him as he locked the door. The main thing that stood out in the living room was the fact that his brown leather love seat was nowhere to be seen, but in its place stood an amazing looking full-sized leather recliner sofa.

"Hey, Warrick? When did I get a new couch?"

"We all chipped in and bought you a new couch since your other one was evidence. You can pay us back as you see fit or you can accept it as a gift from your friends. I'm telling you that thing wasn't cheap..." Warrick's voice trailed off as he made his way into the kitchen and outside onto the patio.

He felt a little shaky as he strode through his living room as memories assaulted him. Grissom sat down on a tall-backed stool at his breakfast bar and propped his right fixated arm up on the counter. He was pleased his co-workers and friends had gone out of their way to make a major purchase without consulting him first, but all of them had at one point complained about his former couch, saying in essence, "This thing is a rock. Get rid of it."

Grissom sat there for a long while contemplating his friendship with his team members. It was good to have a family.

Warrick looked around at his boss from the interior of the kitchen, "Griss?"

"Yeah," Grissom spoke with his left hand moving hastily through his hair.

"You want me to turn on the television or some music? The silence is kinda pervasive."

Grissom's irises enlarged at the vision of the torturous deaths of his mother, Terri Miller and Debbie Marlin that his attacker had shown him on his television. "No! No, television." Grissom's breathing became somewhat erratic and he appeared to be on the verge of a panic attack when Warrick spoke again.

"How about some light jazz? I have some CDs out in the truck I could go get."

"No, that's fine, Warrick. There is plenty of music to choose from over in the cabinet underneath my CD player."

Warrick walked over to the cabinet and immediately found a collection that could suit any occasion: Frederick Chopin, Wolfgang Mozart, Charlie Parker, Beethoven, George Gershwin, Van Morrison, Yo-Yo Ma, The Beatles, Selections from the New York Philharmonic, Miles Davis, Rolling Stones, Walter Jackson, Hans Schubert, Sergei Prokofiev, John Coltrane, B.B. King, Chet Atkins and Hank Williams. He laughed when he found the old-time country music CD cases. When he opened the jewel case entitled 'Greatest Hits of Hank Williams, Sr.', he found the CD was missing. He looked over to his boss who's posture had slumped slightly on the barstool.

"Hey, Griss? You're missing the Hank Williams' 'Greatest Hits' CD. Where is it? Already in the player?"

Grissom was silent for a time trying to remember, "It's in my car. Although, I'm not sure where my car is currently located."

"Ecklie had it towed to the lab a while back for evidence. His folks went over it with a fine tooth comb and didn't find anything probative. As far as I know, your car is still at the lab. No one would have let it go to the impound lot."

Grissom only nodded at the information.

Warrick quickly slipped one of the John Coltrane CDs into the state-of-the-art player and soon the soothing sounds of a jazz saxophone filled the room. No more was said between the two men for more than an hour, as Warrick wandered about the very clean townhouse and checked out the bookcase before settling on a paperback novel by Tom Robbins. He made himself comfortable on the new sofa and read, while Grissom stared off into space at the kitchen counter. Warrick wondered what to do, what to say, but he knew although Grissom was a man of many words, nothing either of them could say or do could ease Grissom's troubled mind. So he read in silence until his stomach rumbled.

"So, boss man, you want something to eat? Sara came over earlier and stocked your refrigerator with fresh produce and milk."

"She did?" Grissom seemed startled when Warrick had spoken, but eased immediately upon hearing Sara's name. "Is she coming over here anytime soon?"

Warrick smirked. "Yeah, she said someone named 'Hank' who likes to eat her underwear, would maybe like to see you. But if you thought it was too much, then she wouldn't bring him."

Grissom's eyebrows quirked together. "Hank eats her underwear?"

"That's what she said."

With no censorship whatsoever, Grissom smiled and retorted. "Good boy."

Both men fell into a well-deserved gratifying chuckle.

* * *

As he sat at the breakfast bar, Grissom's concentration focused on the bubbles that were settling in his kitchen sink. Warrick was a admirable cook, and the two men had shared a quick meal of barbecued chicken, squash and broccoli. Grissom's stomach was settling from his first home-cooked meal in, well, he couldn't remember when. The chime of the doorbell broke Grissom's concentration and led Warrick to stop washing dishes and get the door.

Sara's smile was the first thing Gil noticed when the door opened. The second thing was Hank straining against the leash to get to him. He heard Sara speak quietly to the dog, and Hank calmed immediately, sitting chastely at her feet after she'd come into the living room. While she wanted to go to the breakfast bar to give Grissom a hug, but Warrick was around she decided to sit down on the couch she and Catherine had picked out earlier that morning.

Grissom hesitantly got off the stool and made his way to sit next to Sara on the couch. Warrick found his friends' awkwardness amusing.

Hank, on the other hand, didn't hide his affections for Grissom. He began sniffing Grissom's slacks at the hem and slowly made his way to Grissom's crotch. Grissom moved just slightly, which made him wince, but with a chuckle behind the groan of pain. And before Sara could tell Hank "no no," Hank made a happy yelping sound and put his front paws into Grissom's lap. And unlike Sara, he didn't hesitate to lick his owner's cheek.

Grissom ran his good hand through the dog's coat and scratched Hank behind the ears. Then Hank jumped onto the couch between his sitter and his owner and happily drifted off to sleep between his two favorite people.

Warrick had to laugh. "Now that's a shot. Sara Sidle next to that slobbering, nasty dog that eats her underwear."

"Hey! He's not nasty. I'll have you know I bathed Hank yesterday after a long run."

Ah, the power of suggestion. Hank suddenly jumped up and ran to the front door. Both Sara and Grissom said simultaneously, "He's got to go outside." While they both tried to get up, Warrick jumped up and said, "I'll take him for a walk. That is, if you guys think my underwear is safe."

Sara was about to throw something at her former friend when Grissom piped up. "He's never eaten my underwear."

Warrick let out a laugh. "Then that doesn't make him nasty; that makes him a hound dog," Warrick bent down to pet Hank. "Tell you what, Hank and I will be back in about 30 minutes or so."

Hank eyed Warrick cautiously, but soon bounded next to him when he saw the leash in Warrick's hand. The two left with Warrick humming a Coltrane tune under his breath. Warrick had to pull hard on the leash to lead the dog in the opposite direction than Hank was headed. Warrick Brown had an old girlfriend who lived somewhere on Grissom's street and he was determined not to have an accidental meeting.

When Grissom and Sara found themselves alone, neither spoke for a few moments nor did they look at each other. It was an uncomfortable comfort.

_Say something._

"I haven't bathed in ... more than a week." _Smooth Grissom. Apologize, jackass._ "I'm sorry. I ... can't believe I said that."

Sara patted him on the leg. "It's OK. I understand I'm sure you'd love to get cleaned up."

"Oh, I did a bit in the hospital," Grissom said. "It's not like I'm not wearing deodorant or anything." _Jackass._

Sara couldn't help but appreciate the dopey look on Grissom's face as he backpedaled. _He must be mentally kicking himself, _she thought. "When can you take a shower?" she asked compassionately.

"I'm not supposed to get these fixators wet," Grissom said as he raised his right arm slightly. "My hair's the worst. It feels greasy and crusty at the same time."

"Why don't I help you?" Again, Sara enjoyed the look on Grissom's face. "I could wash your hair over the sink like you would at a hair salon... I mean, a barber shop."

Grissom faced her with a look she couldn't quite decipher. But to Grissom, it was a look of amazement and gratitude. "I can't ask you to do that."

"You didn't. I offered," Sara said as she stood up. "Why don't you take a pain pill now, so we can get your hair washed then you can go straight to bed."

"OK."

* * *

Grissom slowly walked into the kitchen with a towel slung over his shoulder and shampoo from his bathroom in his hand. He looked at Sara standing serenely beside the stove. She appeared to be at home in his townhouse and he smiled at the idea. Wonderful thoughts of the lovely Miss Sidle standing, lounging, bathing, washing clothes, making love to him anytime, day or night, filled him with an intense desire that he'd never felt in his life.

_I'm becoming a sap._

"Hi. Are you ready?"

She swigged down the remaining liquid in the bottle water she was holding and replied, "If you are."

Sara managed to pull a step-stool from the pantry close to the sink in the kitchen. "Hey, sit here so you can lean back and I can wet your hair with the sprayer; and then I'll wash, lather, rinse and repeat if necessary."

For a few seconds, Sara ran the water in the sink to get it to the perfect temperature, then Grissom took a seat on the hard stool. He held up his right hand upon his chest as best as he could with his left hand, and then leaned back into Sara's waiting hands. She cupped his head gingerly with one hand and pressed the button on the sprayer, letting the water trickle through his hair. The moan that escaped him, surprised her. It wasn't a sound of pain or discomfort, but something more primal, more based on pleasure and senuality.

Sara Sidle wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. She had Gil Grissom in a very intimate position and he was moaning. She let go of the sprayer attachment for the hose and it wound itself back into its place. She grabbed the bottle of no-frills shampoo, squirted a quarter-sized dollop into her hand and quickly coated it into his scalp.

Reflexively, another moan escaped him.

The slight but consistent pressure of her fingers massaging through his thick mane was almost too much for Grissom to stand. He wanted to attack her neck with his lips as she towered over him, leaning into his body with hers. He knew it was the perfect moment, he wouldn't get another chance like this and he decided to go for it.

When he lurched up to kiss her, he felt her body tense, then ease as he began to riddle light kisses across her neck. Then the kisses became a bit more substantial as he burrowed as close as this position would allow. She tasted wonderful.

Sara continued to massage the shampoo into his head, but after several minutes of crouching over him in an awkward position, she stopped lathering and pulled away from him. After taking a deep drawing breath that bordered on a sigh, she reached for the sprayer and rinsed the lather out of his hair.

She noticed the look of contentment on his face with a firmly planted smirk plastered on his face. For the first time in a long time, she thought he looked almost peaceful.

When she lathered him again, the same happy moan escaped his lips and this time Sara leaned down into his kisses. Again after a few moments, the position in which she held herself became uncomfortable, so she pulled away from him and began to rinse the shampoo.

Sara grabbed the towel and gently removed the excess water from his head, careful so as to not injure him in any way._ I should probably tell him what Ecklie said about deflecting the higher-ups._ But all thought and logic was torn from her when she felt Grissom's good hand rest against her hip and when he began to tug her closer to him, she was definitely lost in a moment of happiness.

Grissom wanted to pull her body to his and kiss her fully on the lips, and was just about to do so, when Warrick and Hank came back into the house.

"Sara, thank you," Grissom's eyes held a bit of mischief as Sara roped the towel around his neck, smiling at him with twinkle in her eye. He got up and swayed slightly. He needed to regain his balance after being reclined in that position. It seemed to have made him lightheaded.

"Need some help, man?" Warrick asked, noticing that Sara took a step back when Grissom stood up.

"No. I'm fine," Grissom said, as grabbed took the towel around his neck with his left hand. "Warrick, thanks for taking Hank out for a walk. I'm headed to bed."

"Goodnight, Griss." Warrick laughed to himself when he realized that Grissom was singing the tune, "Hey Good Lookin'" by Hank Williams, Sr. under his breath as he walked out of the kitchen.

Sara put the sprayer in its place and collected the shampoo bottle. Warrick thought he noticed a grin on her face. "So, you got a key to his place _and_ you washed his hair. You sure there's nothing going on between you two, girl?"

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Oh... I get it." She took a step closer to Warrick and in a mock whisper said, "You got a little man crush going... I'm sorry War. I had no idea _you_ wanted to wash his hair."

Warrick shook his head and chuckled. "Sar, that is so wrong."

She passed by him with a smile, and went to the couch and Hank immediately lavished her with attention. "Do you have any coffee brewed?"

"Yeah, I'll get you a cup."

When Warrick walked to the living room, he saw Hank practically on top of Sara licking her face. Sara pulled her hair to one side to avoid getting too much dog slobber in it when Warrick saw something that caught his eye. "Hey, Sar? Hank must have had something on his paws and it looks like you might be allergic to whatever it is..."

"What?"

"You got some type of rash on your neck," he said as he motioned to the side of her neck. "Does it itch?" _Busted._

_Beard burn? _"Ummmm... no. I'm sure it will go away."

* * *

_The hug she gave enveloped him in warmth. So familiar. She let him go, smiled as she spoke with her hands. "How is your hearing, dear?"_

_"It's good. The operation went well."_

_"I'm so pleased," his mother said. He could hear her voice now. She put a hand upon his. "How is she?"_

_"Beautiful." He could always voice his honest feelings to his mother. He could recall the sweetness of Sara's gentle touch matched the sweet taste of her long neck. He wanted to touch her, taste her again. "She's so beautiful."_

_"I wish I could meet her, Gil."_

_"You would love her."_

_"As you love her. You should tell her before it's too late." She gripped his hand. He noticed it was mangled and bloody. His blood spilled upon her own aged hands. He looked around and saw the familiar surroundings of his mother's living room. The blue and gold pattern of the aged wallpaper and the telecommunication device. He yelled for his mother. He had to get her out of here, but he was dizzy, nauseous and in absolute pain._

_She was on the bed bound, scared. He had to get to her. Why can't he move? Goddamn it, Grissom, move your fucking body! She's going to die!_

_He watched the evil grin spread on McIntyre's face as he injected the poison. With rage he didn't know existed he pounced upon McIntyre. He pummeled him and pummeled him, but only felt fists upon his own face, back and torso._

_His mother thrashed. Her pain etched on her face, her frail figure stilled in a shocked position. She didn't deserve it. He did nothing. He was a coward. He deserved pain. He deserved to die. He looked around again and saw McIntyre. He couldn't listen to what he was saying. He didn't want to hear his words. He ran as fast as he could._

Grissom awoke breathless and reached over to turn on the bedside lamp with some major effort on his part. *Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness* was a Chinese Proverb that appeared perfect for his particular predicament.

Every muscle in his body ached and he lay awake the rest of the night remembering the excurcating details of his mother's death. He finally gained the strength to get up. He went straight to his closet and found the box he sought, but the second he opened it, he knew it would be empty. It's in evidence, he thought. It has to be, because it was used to kill Phillip.

Grissom went back to his bed and sat down. He thought about Gerard and all the conflicted feelings he felt. Colleague. Mentor. Friend. Father-figure. After the Havilland case, Grissom felt he didn't know the man at all. Sell-out. Coward. Fraud.

But when Gerard was bound and on his knees in front of Grissom and they both knew Gerard's final moment was at hand, it was as if Grissom stared into the eyes of the man he once knew. And the bullet that entered his brain discharged from Grissom's own gun. The same gun that killed Dale Danley.

Grissom couldn't fight his emotions and mourned the man he loved and the lost opportunity for reconciliation with him.

He was glad that gun was no longer in his house.

_

* * *

_

TBC

_

* * *

_

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the two fantastic betas who have shared their particular insight on proper characterizations and all those stupid little misspelled words. If not for CSIGeekFan and ELM22, this story would be a mess. Ditto (from JB)

And I would be particularly remiss if I forgot to humbly say 'Thank you' to all of you who have read and those who have left reviews.

Thank you. :) chauncey (and tyvm Jem for again catching the braid/baird situation)

Ditto (JB again)


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: See previous chapters, some of the disclaimers are good.

A/N: This is Jean. Thanks to all the readers who offered thoughts and sympathy to me and my family. It was most appreciated. :-)

* * *

Chapter 19

* * *

The next morning Warrick awoke to the smell of fresh coffee. He eased down the stairway to the kitchen and saw his mentor sitting stiffly in the same high backed bar stool as he sat last night. Warrick watched the man for a while, barely breathing when he realized they had nearly lost him.

"I can hear you breathing. You want some coffee?" Grissom's voice surprised the light-skinned black man with wild morning hair.

"Smells like the expensive stuff. Did you get it from Greg at Christmas, too?"

Grissom merely nodded his head and watched as Warrick helped himself to a mug of the fresh coffee.

Warrick cleared his throat while watching Grissom slip the hot Blue Hawiian coffee in the mug.

Grissom looked up at him sharply. Warrick merely shrugged his shoulders.

"I really wasn't trying to get your attention, but we need to make plans for the day. What do you want to do? Chess? Poker? Board games?"

"I'd like to go to the lab."

"Griss, you just got home from the hospital yesterday afternoon. The lab can survive without you longer than you imagine." The look on Grissom's face was almost a smile. Warrick looked incredulously at him. "You can't mean you really want to go to work."

"No, Warrick. I want to go to my office and pick up a few things and to check my experiments. Plus, my tarantula is probably hungry."

They were silent for a while, both sipping on their respective coffees, when Grissom spoke again, "Okay, so we're going to the lab?"

Warrick didn't want to disappoint his boss, so he said, "Yeah, later after the dayshift gets off. There's this chick on days that's been hounding me."

Grissom laughed and retorted, "Yeah, I know the feeling."

"You mean with a woman on dayshift?"

"No. With a Hodges on nightshift."

Warrick shook his head and let out a low chuckle.

* * *

Greg topped off his fifth cup of coffee in the morning. To be fair, he had finished his own shift three hours ago, so five cups since the wee hours of that Friday wasn't too bad.

But he still was a bit jittery, which was more a result of his rate of patience, rather than the amount of caffeine in his system.

Finally he felt the long awaited vibration on his hip. The DNA analysis would be completing some very important results from Grissom's case and Greg wanted to be there when the paper shot out of the printer.

Ecklie had received an early morning delivery that contained a sample from Jacob McIntyre's estranged sister. While he gave the job to the DNA daytime tech, he allowed Greg to stick around and look at the results afterwards. As Ecklie told Greg, "Can't hurt to double check."

When Greg arrived in the DNA lab, the dayshift tech gave him a smile and a piece of paper. Greg had wanted to see the results first, but when he looked over the report, he smiled and said, "I think we have all we need to get an arrest warrant for this woman's brother."

* * *

Thankfully Brass had gotten five hours of sleep before he received a call from Conrad Ecklie. The minute he heard the information Ecklie had for him, he was off and running.

"Jim, DNA had 7 common alleles which means siblings, so that along with the XY distinction of the DNA should be enough to get a warrant for Jacob McIntyre. Plus, we got a call from Gerard's health insurance. An inquiry was made from a clinic in Barstow, California, on the morning we found Gerard's body," Ecklie said over the phone.

Jim was hastily putting on some clothes as he talked to Ecklie. With the phone cradled between his neck and shoulder, Brass zipped his pants and threaded his belt as he responded. "Do we have the time stamps on the credit card charges in Oakland?"

"Yeah. Got them here."

"Drop them off at my office. I want everything we got there for me to get the warrant and get out of there."

"You going to Barstow?"

"Well, I'm not going to fucking DisneyLand," Brass said as he went to find a shirt.

* * *

Brooke Paulsen's boredom lingered on coma-rendering. Slow day. Slow week. Slow life.

It wasn't that there weren't any patients coming into the StatCare Clinic; it's just that there were no "special" clients coming into the clinic for the past few days.

Which meant Brooke didn't have any extra cash to play. And all work and no play made Brooke a very, very dull girl.

So nowadays when she heard that ubiquitous "dah dum" ring of the door opening, she barely gave any attention to whoever might happen upon her counter. Instead she uttered that phrase tattooed on her brain, "Insurance card and identification, please."

What came in her view took her by surprise. It's not often an insurance card comes in the form of a gold police badge. But when Brooke raised her head to see the person on the other side of the desk she still had a bored look on her face.

Then she encountered the not quite handsome face of Captain Jim Brass.

The drive from Vegas to Barstow should have taken about two and a half hours, but Brass made it in one hour and 50 minutes, sirens blazing along I-15 South. On his drive down, he contacted the captain of the Barstow Police Department, a Tom Hollis, who offered his services and accompanied Brass to the StatCare Clinic.

After Brass' badge seemed to get the receptionist's attention, Captain Hollis spoke, "Ma'am, we need to speak to you about a patient who arrived here earlier this week."

"Um... the doctor is with a patient..." The woman was obviously stalling. "The doctor on staff today has only been here a couple of times this week, but I've been here all week. Maybe I can help you?"

Although he did not have a snarl or an unpleasant expression, Brass glared at the young woman. "Thank you... what's your name?"

"Brooke."

"Brooke. OK, Brooke. You had a patient come in early Monday morning. Were you working then?" Brass asked.

"Yes."

Brass pulled out the only photo they had of Jacob McIntyre. His 18-year-old prison mug shot. "Does this man look familiar."

Although her face was emotionless, Brass noted the woman paused for just a minute. "No," she said strongly. "Never seen him."

"OK," Brass said. "Do you recall a patient by the name of Phillip Gerard?"

"We get a lot of patients here. It's hard to remember any of them by name."

"Do you enter all of the insurance information for the insurance companies?"

"Yes. The doctors don't see anyone without insurance, and it has to go through before they see a patient."

"So, according to BlueCross/BlueShield, this past Monday morning, you put in a request for a Phillip Gerard?" Brass put a sheet of paper from the insurance company in Brooke's view to make his point.

"Yeah. I guess so. What's the problem?"

"Well, unless a dead man walked in here, then it wasn't Phillip Gerard," Capt. Hollis said.

Brooke didn't seem to miss a beat. She'd been doing this long enough to know the next step. "Listen. I have to look at a photo ID along with the insurance information." Brooke got up and went to her filing cabinet. She pulled a file for Monday and looked through it. "Here. Here are the copies of the id for the man who said he was Phillip Gerard. If he wasn't who he said he was, then he had the right id."

"So, did the man who said he was Phillip Gerard look like the man on the license?"

"I wouldn't let him pass if he didn't," Brooke said. "So, if all your questions are answered I need to get back to matters at hand." She motioned to the woman and child standing in line behind the two police officers.

Brooke stood up to hand the mother a clipboard full of papers to fill out when the door leading to the examination room opened suddenly. "Oh. Brooke. Good," said a tall man in a white coat. "Brooke could I get the number for the pharmacy on the corner of Flemming and Cleveland?"

"Doctor, I told you it's best to use the intercom for requests like that," Brooke said.

"Needed to stretch my legs," he said with a kind smile, and then noticed police officer standing at reception. "Afternoon gentlemen."

"Doctor Foley?" Brass asked after a quick glance at the insurance paperwork. An x-ray request was made by a Doctor Foley.

"Yes sir. Be right with you," the doctor replied.

"Ms. Paulsen," Captain Hollis said. "You need to let us back there right now, and join us with the doctor."

Brooke swallowed and opened the door to let the two men enter the examination area. "Look. Dr. Foley does not have the best memory in the world. He's a good doctor, but he forgets little things and it is embarrassing for him."

Although her speech sounded viable and sympathetic, neither man bought it. "Well, let's just give the guy a chance," Hollis said, as he took a step behind Brooke and Brass walked next to Brooke.

They went into examination room 2, where Brooke knocked on the door. Doctor Foley peeked his head out. "Yes?"

Before Brooke could speak, Brass did. "Doctor Foley, we're investigating a crime against a fellow officer of the law and need a few minutes of your time."

"Oh, well, of course. Give me just a minute."

True to his word, the doctor opened the door and shook hands with the mother and her pre-teen son. "Yes, you're very welcome. And Oscar, I hope you feel better, son. Put your shoes back on and you can wait at the front desk. I'll have your prescription there."

Doctor Foley closed the door. "OK, officers. Let's sit down in the office, shall we?"

They followed him to a small room with a desk and three diplomas on the wall. "How can I help you?"

Tom Hollis introduced himself and Brass, who immediately explained their presence. "We are looking for information on a patient you treated earlier this week."

"I only work two half days a week. The last time I was here was... when was that, Brooke?"

"Monday, doctor."

Doctor Foley looked at the young woman. "Brooke, did you give them the information they needed?"

"Yes I did, doctor."

He nodded. "Gentlemen, it's good Brooke is here to help me. I am notoriously bad at remembering some patients, especially names. That's why I try to keep good records. Although..." the doctor chuckled. "Brooke do you remember that woman last week with the unusual name?" Brooke almost looked nervous and said nothing, so he turned his attention to the officers. "Sirs, can you believe her name was 'George Mason Wycosky?' Said she was your typical tomboy. What a world."

Brass smiled. "I bet you are better with faces. This is an old photo, but do you remember seeing a man looking like this."

The doctor took a long look at the photo and studied it hard.

Brooke broke the silence. "It's OK, doctor. I don't remember seeing anyone like that at all."

Although Doctor Foley didn't acknowledge her remark, he looked at the photo and said, "1937."

The policemen looked at one another. "Excuse me?" Hollis asked.

Doctor Foley pointed at the photo. "Yes. A young man came in on Monday, and I remember his personal information stated he was born in 1937. But he looked like he was in his thirties. I said something to him and he admitted that he accidentally transposed the numbers in his birth year. It read 1937 but he said was born in 1973. Same year as my youngest grandson."

Doctor Foley gave the photo back to Brass. "Poor boy had a bike accident. Did some painful damage to his arm."

Brass perked up on hearing that information, but Capt. Hollis was interested in the information about the birth dates. "Ms. Paulsen, let's go get the file. I will escort you."

As they left, Doctor Foley piped up again. "Gerard! Yes. I think his name was Bill... no... not Bill Gerard..."

"Phillip?"

"Yes! Thank you sir."

"No, thank you doctor," Brass said. "What do you remember about the exam?"

"Well, like I said. Damage to his... I can't remember which... but one of his arms. I was just going to give him a few pain pills because he needed to see a personal physician for a followup, but he asked for a longer prescription because his doctor was on vacation. I can't remember if he said he was on vacation in Sedona or if he was from Sedona... I'm sorry about that officer."

At this point, Brass was sure there was an issue of insurance and probably Medicare fraud at the clinic. He was unsure if the good doctor was involved, and while Brass always sided with caution, something told him this doctor had no idea what Brooke Paulsen was doing. "You've been quite helpful, doc. The injury the man suffered, how would it feel for him to take a long drive?"

"Oh my," Doctor Foley said, as he leaned back in his chair. "Well, a young man like that could take it, but he seemed to be in a lot of pain. He looked exhausted."

_Yeah, torturing an innocent man is hard fucking work, _Brass thought. "You have any idea if he stayed in town?"

"I'm sorry, I don't. But I called his prescription locally. But... I'm not sure where...," the doctor said. "But I'm sure Brooke would know."

"I'm sure she would," Brass said as he stood up and exited the office.

When Brass got to the reception area, Hollis greeted him with a smile. "I was just telling Ms. Paulsen that I went to school with a George Wycosky," he said. "Perhaps the three of us should go to the police station for a private chat."

-----

Once at the station, Captain Hollis called his buddy and confirmed he had never been to the StatCare Clinic, but did have his wallet stolen some two weeks ago with his health insurance card in it.

"We have you on fraud with that case," Hollis said, "and now, we know you are lying in regard to the Phillip Gerard case."

"Look, I didn't get a good look at the guy. That's not a crime."

Brass pounded his fist hard on the table. "Jacob McIntyre came to you and you helped him. That makes you an accessory to murder after the fact. I would strongly suggest you start talking."

That shook the woman. "Look. He gave me $200 and a valid insurance card. That's it. I've never seen him before and I haven't seen him since. I don't know who the hell he is."

Brooke spilled about her little scheme. At first she made it sound like she was helping people out without insurance. But the fact she got a kickback from the patients torpedoed her "for the good of humanity" cause. "All I can tell you about that guy is that he asked where the bus stop was when he left and he had his prescription called in to the Walgreens."

Brass and Hollis left the room for her to be processed. "Did that help you at all?" the captain asked.

"Well, Gerard's credit card was used in Oakland some time before and after McIntyre showed up at StatCare. I think someone else used the card."

"Did he have an accomplice?"

"Grissom, the victim, he swears it was only one guy."

"Victims aren't always the best witnesses."

"Yeah... listen, Tom, I'm going to check around town to see if anyone recognizes McIntyre. Where do you think a guy would lay low around here?"

"The usual places: low rent motels and flop houses. I'll lend you a couple of beat cops to help."

* * *

Barstow had its share of resorts and upper- and middle-class hotels. But it also had a contingent of low-rent hotels. After two hours, Brass and the officers reconvened and shared the fact they had nothing. With only four more motels on his list, Brass released the officers and moved to his second Motel 6.

A tense evening manager greeted Brass in a terse manner, with an unmistakable Indian accent. "I have many peoples who come here every day. I am not a man who delves in the businesses of other men. I am very sorry sir, but I cannot help you."

"Listen to me," Brass said, his nerves shot. "This guest would have had a broken arm. Look at the photo again."

"I say to you again, sir. I do not know of this man you speak of. Now, please. I have cooperated with the police."

"Do you have any other employees who might recall this guest?"

"You may ask the other staff. The only one who is unable for you to interview is a woman student who works the dayshift, but she has since taken leave of the job and will not return for several days. Now, please sir, I must continue with my services."

Brass began to talk with other employees, many of which did not speak very good English or acted as if they did not. His cellular rang and he answered sternly. "Brass."

"Captain, you thinking about taking a dinner break?" Hollis asked on the other line.

Brass sighed. It had been a long frustrating day. He truly believed McIntyre was here, perhaps still in town, and he was getting nowhere. "Yeah. Sure. I could use a bite to eat."

"I'll pick you up in a few minutes. I know just the right greasy spoon for a cop's delicate stomach," Hollis laughed.

* * *

It had started around 1 p.m., the pacing.

Warrick watched as Grissom paced and puttered around his townhouse. They had tried to play cards, but after playing several hands, Grissom had become frustrated. Any sound from outside broke his concentration.

Warrick knew his boss was anxious and wanted to get to the lab, but Warrick had to time it right; he needed to avoid one woman on dayshift, and another one on Swing. He really shouldn't fish from the company pier, but with his crazy work schedule, sometimes the only women available to him were coworkers. But besides the dayshift hottie, he was more scared of Catherine's reaction if she found out he brought Grissom to the lab; she'd give him dumpster duty for a month.

"Griss, I promise we'll leave here around 3. Why don't you go upstairs and lie down?"

"I'm not tired."

"Well, if it's okay, I'd like to watch 'ESPN' to catch up on the latest sports scores. Do you have another TV where I could watch it, since I can't watch this one?" He pointed to the darkened big screen television in the corner of the living room.

"No." Grissom started, "I wish Sara had left Hank here. I could have taken him walking. Tell you what, I'll go to my office for a while, and when it's time to go you can knock on the door to my study."

Warrick smiled and eagerly flipped on the television when he saw Grissom disappear into his study. He let out a comfortable sigh as he watched Chris Berman narrate the best sport clips of the week.

* * *

Grissom sat down in front of his desk. Like his couch, the chair was new. The old one in evidence, although he had no recollection of why it had to be there.

His right hand hung heavily by his side and he could feel the metal tugging at his skin. The external fixators weren't exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn't natural to have a bunch of metal sticking out of his arm and hand. He sighed, and wished for the thousandth time that he'd never driven down to Primm that fateful morning. But Grissom understood his attacker, this Jacob McIntyre, would have found any way to get to him.

In an instant, his mind flashed to Sara Sidle. As he sat down at his desk and absentmindedly flipped on his desktop computer, he imagined her in his bed. It was a relatively simple fantasy: Sara's dark brown hair spread out fanning her face as she slept soundly. She'd be wrapped in the warmth from the quilt his mother had given him several years ago for Christmas. Sara would moan quietly in her sleep as he slipped in beside her. Grissom smiled, but immediately frowned when he opened his email account. An e-mail from Phillip Gerard dated a week prior to his death caught Grissom's attention.

He hesitated for a moment before clicking on the icon to open the mail.

___Gil--  
I'll be in Vegas for several days next week for a seminar I'm teaching at Caesar's Palace on recovery of a body in snow.  
I doubt any of your staff needs that particular course, but there about 75 people signed up for the class.  
If you'd like to get together for a drink, then call me at 612-555-7811.  
We were good friends once and I'd like to recover our friendship.  
"Sometimes friendships were meant to be destroyed. And sometimes there are people in your life that aren't worthy of your friendship."  
Gil, our friendship should not have been destroyed and I take full responsibility for that. You are worthy of friendship and I hope I'm worthy of yours.  
--Phillip_

Grissom heard the sound of Warrick's quiet knock a long while later. He quickly wiped the stream of tears from his eyes and said, "Come in."

"It's time to head to the lab. Are you ready?"

Before Grissom stood up and headed to the door, he closed Phillip's message. To him, the week-old message was a new one.

He never noticed the message, like several others he had yet to look over, had already been read.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N 2: It took me and a beta 20 minutes to develop that last line...  
(and then Chauncey came in and in several short seconds, added to it a bit to it too.)  
(And then Jellybean came in and edited it some more because it was too long again! Hey! Don't your roll your eyes at me, Chauncey!)  
In case you didn't get it the sentence at all, we offer the alternative line... OH, NEVER FUCKING MIND! IT WAS MCINTYRE. HE READ GRISSOM'S EMAILS!  
(but then how else would he have known Gerard's phone number when he called him from Grissom's house? duh?)  
(Don't duh me. We had to remind the readers that we weren't missing that little detail. Stop rolling your eyes!)  
Sorry, everyone, Jellybean tries to get in the last word, every single time...LOL while rolling her eyes.  
I do not, bitch :-)  
This is your beta. Both of you stop bitching. ;)  
And this is your other beta. You two stop fighting like little kids or I'll turn this car around! :)


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: See previous chapters. Maybe we should have a contest to see what chapter's disclaimer is best?

* * *

Chapter 20

* * *

When the truck came to a halt in the lab's parking lot, Warrick put his right arm across Grissom's chest before the older man could exit the SUV. It earned Warrick the patented Grissom single-arched eyebrow.

"Look Griss, you aren't supposed to be here and my ass is on the line if certain people see you here, so if you don't mind, in and out, quickly."

"But Dad," Grissom mocked, "What if I have to go tinkle?"

"There's no way you ever said that to your father," Warrick fired back.

Grissom just smiled. "I promise, I won't be long... Warrick."

"Okay." And with that Warrick got out of the car and was ready to help Grissom out, who managed to turn himself around but still needed help stepping down without bumping his right arm.

They walked into the employee-only entrance, so they could avoid the front desk personnel. Although Grissom didn't mind Warrick tailing him, he did want a couple of minutes alone in his office. He knew the only way to get those free minutes was to throw his young friend to the wolves. _I hope he forgives me,_ Grissom thought as he made a detour on the way to his office.

"Griss?" Warrick said in a whisper. "What the hell, man?"

"I wasn't joking about the restroom. I have to pee." And Grissom pushed open the door and strode quickly to the men's room while Warrick stood several feet away.

When Grissom came out, he took off down a different hallway from whence he came. A hallway that also passed by Catherine's office.

"Hey Cath," Grissom said as he strode past her office door just slow enough to catch her "deer in the headlights" look as she spoke on the phone.

Warrick stopped in his tracks, let out an exasperated sigh and put his hands on his hips. "Oh damn."

Catherine came out of her office like a fired shot. She saw Grissom's back and his familiar bowlegged gait as he entered his office, immediately shutting the door behind him. Looking behind her with a less than pleasant expression, she saw Warrick standing with his hands on his hips and a smile on his face.

"Warrick! What the hell is he doing here?" she said in a tense whisper. "Not only should he be resting, but if he's trying to work on his case..."

"Relax Cath. He just wants to get a few things from his office," Warrick said. "He's like a caged animal in that townhouse. He'll be in and out. He promised."

While the two spoke, heatedly to one another in the hall, Grissom sought the item he hoped to retrieve unnoticed. He unlocked his file cabinet and winced as he bent down to pick up his kit. He opened it, picked up his service revolver and took a long look at it.

He'd never felt a need to have a gun with him. But in the past week, so much had changed about Gil Grissom, including his need to have a gun.

Grissom found one of his CSI light jackets draped across his office chair, so he placed the gun in the jacket pocket and bundled it to effectively to conceal the firearm.

He heard the voices of his two co-workers filter from the hallway and get louder as they approached his office. He took the bundle and went to the terrarium in the corner of his office.

"I just want to see exactly what he wants," Catherine said. "Gil, what the hell are you doing?"

Grissom turned around with the fierce-, yet fuzzy-looking spider crawling over his left hand. "I missed my tarantula."

If anyone else but Grissom had uttered those words, Catherine would have either stopped to laugh or called security. Instead she just sadly shook her head. "Grissom, we could have brought the spider to you."

Grissom shrugged. "Well, dear, I wanted to see you, too. A kind of two-for-one bargain," he smirked while getting yet another incredulous look from his friend. "But I'm leaving as soon as I feed him. Warrick, look in my refrigerator over there and hand me the cup that is labeled 'Mealworms.'"

Warrick walked over to Grissom's mini-fridge and asked, "Is this it?" while holding up a small enclosed cup, the same type container they used in the collection of evidence.

"Yeah. Open it up for me, too, please."

Catherine watched as Warrick poured several of the worms into Gil's open left hand, after he'd replaced the spider in the terrarium. Then she watched as Grissom put the worms into the small petri dish and placed the dish inside the clear tank. When he brought his hand out of the tank, Catherine noticed noticed one of the mealworms lingered on his hand.

"Gil, you got...." The look of horror on Catherine's face prevented any other sound as she wordless watched Grissom pop the last worm into his mouth and chew thoughtfully. Catherine then gagged, covered her mouth and ran from the office.

The sound of Warrick's laughter filled the room as Grissom looked confused at Catherine's sudden departure.

"You really know how to clear a room, Griss."

Gil grabbed the bunched up jacket and the two men left the crime lab. "Let's get something to eat, I'm kinda hungry. Why don't we stop at the diner? My treat."

* * *

Sara called Grissom's cell phone from her apartment.

"Hello, Sara. What's up?"

The sound of his voice sent shivers down her spine. "I was wondering if I could drop Hank over at your place when I work tonight. He really misses you and I think it would do both of you good to spend some time together."

"That's sweet, Sara," Grissom said, a soft smile on his face. "OK. Thanks. Have a good shift." Grissom ended the call and looked over at Warrick as the man sat eating his hash browns. "What, Warrick?"

"Umm, 'That's sweet, Sara,'" Warrick said in his faux Grissom voice. "Come on bug man. What's going on between the two of you?"

Grissom was quiet for a moment. Warrick wondered if he'd pushed him too hard, but smiled when he heard Grissom's answer.

"What should have started a long time ago."

* * *

Brass sat relaxed as he listened to Captain Hollis reminisce about a boys' weekend away in Vegas when his phone rang.

"Excuse me for a second, Tom. Office call."

"Not a problem, Jim."

"Brass. Yes, Vega. ... Jesus," Brass checked his watch. "I've got about a two-hour drive but I'll be there in less time."

Brass wrote down some notes then hung up his phone.

"Sounds like duty calls you back to Sin City?" Tom Hollis watched Brass extract some bills from his wallet and stopped him short. "Put it away, Jim. It's on us."

"Not necessary..."

"Don't be like that. My pleasure. Come back and buy me lunch on a social visit."

"You bet. And if you'll pass along the photo to your men who weren't on shift today."

"Will do, Jim. Safe drive," Hollis said.

Detective Vega had been on the phone requesting his presence at a gang-related shooting. When Vega told him the names of the three officers killed in the melee, he felt a knot clutch his gut. With his sirens blasting, Brass made it to the scene in a little more than 90 minutes. He jumped out of the Charger and surveyed the scene with a clinical eye.

* * *

"Sara, do you really think you should be looking at this?" Ecklie whispered as he vaguely gestured toward the AV equipment and the AV Specialist, Archie Johnson.

"I think it may benefit the investigation, yes." Sara replied professionally.

"Johnson, step out for a moment. I need a word alone with CSI Sidle." Ecklie commanded.

Archie sent Sara a look of "you're in trouble" with a mischievous smile as he shut the door behind him.

"Ecklie..."

"Sara..." They began at the same time.

Conrad waved his hand toward Sara and she recognized he wanted her to begin.

"I think it would help me help Grissom, too."

"Believe me, Miss Sidle, I understand. But I have seen the clip of the murder of the nurse Debbie Marlin and it is quite graphic and she is very nearly your twin. Will you be able to handle seeing the graphic death of a woman who resembles you to the point she could _be_ you?"

"I worked her case initially, I saw her, then I saw how Grissom reacted."

"I didn't recall seeing your name listed on the case file when I read over it."

"Well, Grissom assigned me to the perimeter; I didn't find much. Then I did some backgrounds and I took her toe prints in the morgue."

Ecklie considered her for a moment. "Sara, did you know Grissom's mother?"

"I did not."

"Dr. Miller's death is the most graphic of the three. I know for a fact the two of you were at least acquainted. There are several hundred crime scene photos, some kiddie porn and spousal abuse and rape. I know those cases are a trigger for you. Will you be able to handle it, Sara?"

"Yes, I will, but just so you know, those cases are triggers for Grissom, too. But I might see something in this video that no one else might recognize."

That had never occurred to him, the cases triggered Grissom, too. "Johnson!" Ecklie bellowed. When Archie stuck his head in, "Johnson, fire up the video."

Archie took his place on the AV console, flipped a few switches here and there and on the larger video screen were disturbing images of a young woman who had been beaten to a pulp. As they watched the crime scene photos flash over and over, Sara saw something on the ground just past the victim on the right. "Stop, rewind, Arch. Slow down. now...stop. Enlarge that."

The image was a crumpled sweatshirt bearing the letters, 'ALDE' and just beneath the letters 'IVERS'. "Walden University, that's in Minneapolis. Must be a case from when Grissom was a CSI there."

Ecklie smiled to himself. He remembered when Gil had transferred to the Las Vegas Crime Lab from Minnesota all those years ago. They had been friends then, and now were working toward that again. He'd made the right decision allowing Sara to watch this.

Sara caught more clues. In an image of a little boy, face down in a ditch, Sara spotted an interstate highway sign in the distance. "710," she said after asking Archie to stop the tape. "That means it's near L.A. Grissom was a coroner there before moving to Minnesota. Must have been one of his autopsies." She linked some of the fast moving images to some on Grissom's fish board. She also recognized Suzanna Kirkwood's parent's driveway.

"After this one, there are just different jpeg pics and then there are the videos of the deaths of Olivia Grissom, Terri Miller and Debbie Marlin," Ecklie said.

"What about Michael Clarke?"

"Well, all we could do is speculate. Maybe McIntyre was interrupted after killing and positioning Marlin's body," Ecklie said. "You can hear a voice that we assume is Clarke's. We assume McIntyre killed and chopped up Clarke's body to hide the evidence."

Sara said nothing. It wasn't her place exactly. She was torn. She and the nurse Aimee had heard Dr. Lurie tell Grissom what he'd done to the already dead Clarke's body. It wasn't a crime, nothing he could be convicted on, but Sara wasn't telling Ecklie this information. It was up to Grissom and she wasn't asking him to come forward because he didn't know that she had overheard the conversation.

The three watched the video of Olivia Grissom in silence. The camera panned around a room decorated in silver and gold wallpaper, and the trio saw the telecommunications device and a laptop computer on an antique roll-top desk. Then the scene moved to the bedroom. There was audio on tape, but the sound of the voice was lost to the simultaneous buzzings and ringings of Ecklie's and Sara's cell phones.

Archie stopped the tape as the CSI and lab director took their calls. Had she heard the voice on the video, there was a good chance Sara might have recognized the voice on the tape to be that of James Braid. When Hank had tried to attack the neighbor, Braid hadn't fully transformed himself into the 'Southern gentleman James Braid' mode, and had slipped using his own voice, with its Northern Minnesota intonations.

"Archie, see if you can get anything else from these videos. Sara and I and all other available CSIs are now needed at a crime scene where three police officers have been killed in a gang-related shooting."

* * *

Brass looked down upon the crumpled and bullet riddled body of Officer David Fromanski. He knew for a fact the man had only several more weeks of service to the city of Las Vegas before he was scheduled to retire. There were two other dead policemen in the same shape as Fromanski. Seeing the bodies of his fellow brethren saddened him. He hadn't especially cared for Fromanski or even liked him as a man, but seeing him dead in the street in an apparently senseless crime, upset him. Brass steeled himself as he saw Warrick approaching him.

"What are you doing here?"

"I got called in, too."

"But you're off, taking care of the King."

Warrick laughed. "He's a big..." Warrick's voice suddenly changed, "Is that Fromanski? Shit."

"Yeah, two others, Mark Roseberry and Wade Wilson. Good men. Three civilians injured, none died, luckily or the public would go nuts on us. The ambulance just left taking them to Desert Palm."

"Suspects?"

"Three wannabe MS-13s. Vega is in charge of the investigation, since it's gang-related. I'm just here helping out."

"Me, too. Where are..."

The sound of bullets filled the air and the two men ducked for cover, with Brass immediately pulling his gun.

A hail of shots rang out from the all of the policemen at the scene as a white van decorated in spray-painted graffiti, bearing the well-known gang symbol spun out of control slamming into a black CSI Denali. Brass and Warrick watched as the new suspects were apprehended and Warrick stood shaking his head, "I guess Ecklie's gonna have my ass on a platter."

"Why's that 'Rick?"

"That was my Denali."

"Shit."

"Yeah, you got that right."

* * *

TBC

* * *


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away... ooops sorry, wrong fandom.

* * *

Chapter 21

* * *

Brass had completed the paperwork on his part of the investigation of the three slain officers while he sat at his desk in his office in PD. He thought about David Fromanski for a moment and sent up a prayer for the man's soul and for those of the other two officers. Officer-involved shootings always hit Brass hard. He was debating on whether to drink himself into a stupor or to pick up some anonymous woman for meaningless sex and even considered the merits of doing both when his office phone rang.

"Jim Brass."

"This is Lieutenant Michael Slavin with the Barstow P.D. My captain suggested I call you."

"Yes?"

"I may have some information you may find helpful. I saw the mug shot you left with Hollis, and it sparked something. I was investigating an attempted homicide at the Motel 6 about a week or so ago."

"Go on." Brass grabbed the pen.

"A man with an injured right arm, in a sling. Said he'd injured it in after an argument with his old lady falling down a flight of stairs. I knew he was lying to me, but it wasn't part of my investigation, so I noted it and forgot about it until this morning."

Brass felt his heart stop for a second. He knew this was the man that had kidnapped and tortured his friend.

"Can you describe him?"

"His face was a lot harder than the young man I saw in that mug shot. But the man I questioned was tall, blond hair, blue eyes. Lanky kinda guy. Spoke with a heavy southern accent. But the resemblance between the man I interviewed and the mugshot is uncanny."

Brass took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before he asked the question he knew he had to ask, "Did you get the man's name?"

"James Braid."

* * *

It was no surprise to Warrick when he found Sara at the layout table looking over the evidence from Grissom's case, after they'd wrapped up the case involving the three dead officers. All that was left was for Bobby Dawson to connect all of the ballistic evidence and they would have the three gang-bangers dead to rights.

"Hey, I don't know about you, but I need some sleep. I need to head back to Grissom's. You taking me or do I need to catch a ride with someone else?"

"Um... yeah," Sara said. "Right behind you."

It had been a long week, and both had had little sleep.

Sara looked forward to seeing Grissom for a few minutes before heading home to catch some seriously needed sleep at her apartment.

Warrick looked forward to crashing in Grissom's spare bedroom for as long as possible.

* * *

Brass tried to call Grissom's house again, only to get the machine. "GODDAMMIT!" He wanted to smash his phone against the dashboard of his police issued Charger, but suddenly thought about Warrick. Brass quickly dialed.

"Brown," Brass heard on the other line.

"Rick. I can't get a hold of Grissom. Are you with him?"

"We're almost back to his place. What's up?"

Brass explained what Officer Slavin told him on the phone. "Jacob McIntyre is using the alias James Braid. ... Yeah... the guy next door to Gil. I'm on my way and I've got backup meeting me at 1857-A Plum Poet Place."

Warrick looked at Sara who heard enough of Warrick's end of the conversation to frantically call Grissom.

"Brass. We're pulling in Grissom's driveway, now. We'll find him."

Warrick hung up and and watched as Sara hung up her phone. "He's not answering?"

"No. He's not."

"It's OK," Warrick reasoned. "He probably took Hank for a walk and didn't carry his phone."

* * *

Grissom didn't hear the phone ringing as Hank barked and barked and barked. He didn't just want to be left out. He wanted freedom.

"OK. Calm down," Grissom said. Hank scratched at the sliding glass door that led to the back yard. "I just let you out to pee 20 minutes ago."

Grissom opened the door slowly with his left hand, and when the opening was wide enough for Hank, the dog darted out (although it didn't seem wide enough for the dog to Grissom's trained eye). Hank went to the fence shared with the neighboring townhouse and let out a multitude of growls and barks. He even jumped up onto the fence, as far as his hind legs would allow and scratched at the boards.

"What the hell are you doing, Hank?" Grissom called as he walked to his companion. Before he reached Hank, he saw his neighbor standing on a ladder, seemingly working on the roof of his shed with a hammer in his hand.

The man who was blond and blue-eyed shot him an evil, knowing smile. It hit Grissom like a bullet in his gut. _That face. Oh my God. _

The man offered a neighborly wave and retreated down the ladder.

Grissom stood immobilized, completely shell-shocked.

The memory of wearing earbuds and listening to screams over and over flooded Grissom's mind. _The man yanked the buds out of my ears. He smashed his fist hard against the right side of my face three times. Then he took a step back and kicked me in the chest so hard, I fell backwards. He hovered above me and screamed, "DO HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, THERE, YA FUCKIN' BASTARD?" _

For the first time since his kidnapping, Grissom realized he _had seen_ his kidnapper's face. He hadn't worn the ski mask when he ushered Gerard into the house at gun point.

His tormentor was his next door neighbor. Grissom went back into his house, forgetting about Hank, who continued to bark and yelp, then began digging at the bottom of the fence that connected his yard with the townhouse next door.

Inside his townhouse, Grissom grabbed the weapon he'd retrieved at his office from the day before. He went out the front door as he ignored the calm voice in his head that said, _Call for help._ All he could hear were the echos of screams, mostly his own.

He went next door and noticed the fence door was open in the backyard. He walked through it and saw the shed where his kidnapper, Jacob McIntyre, had stood on a ladder and taunted Grissom. McIntyre was no longer outside. The side door was left ajar. Grissom took a deep breath to calm himself, raised his gun held firmly in his left hand and entered the shed, clearing the small building used for storage within seconds.

McIntyre wasn't there. Grissom took in his surroundings. He noticed it was wired for electricity and had two sturdy, double-paned windows. McIntyre seemed to use the shed as a workshop. In a far corner was an unused push lawn mower, but Grissom quickly drew his attention to a large work bench. On it were metal-workings and welding tools, and a diagram of a very familiar chair. _"I made this myself with you in mind, there, Grissom." _A wave of nausea hit Grissom, he bent down and retched as memories of what was done to him in that chair came back to him. He ribs ached as he vomited, and could feel his mental strength dwindling.

Suddenly, he felt he was no longer alone, and when he heard something being pushed across the cement floor, he made a firm grip on his gun and stood upright as quickly as his body allowed. McIntyre was there to greet him. Although he had his weapon trained on McIntyre, Grissom looked distressed. His hand began to shake and his breathing and heart-rate increased dramatically. He had yet to say a word to McIntyre, who didn't seem surprised to see Grissom there.

"Ya fuckin' bastard," McIntyre said, as he took two steps closer to Grissom. He held some type of device concealed in his left arm. "Whatcha plan on doing now?"

"Don't move, McIntyre." Grissom's voice mimicked his hand.

"Don't move, eh? Why? Whatcha going do, ya fuckin' bastard," McIntyre said, standing his ground. "Ya plan on killing me in cold blood. Because you've done that before and are good at that, that's fer sure."

"I... I don't ... want." Grissom began to sway just slightly. He could feel himself going weak at the knees, but he caught himself. "NO! Just... don't move!"

"You know what there, Grissom," McIntyre said, an evil smile upon your face. "Your eyes look so familiar. Now where have I seen those eyes before? Know what, ya fucking bastard? You look just like yer dearly departed mommy. I'll bet she didn't even know who spawned you."

Grissom raised the gun in the air and pointed the barrel directly at McIntyre's chest. "I'm going to kill you."

"Ya go ahead there, Grissom. You're a cold blooded killer. Remember?" McIntyre said. His voice became calm but strong and calculated. "How many murders do you have to call your own? How many there? ... I'm asking you a fuckin' question, ya goddamn, fuckin' bastard!"

Grissom held the gun as steady as possible. The words of Philip Gerard filled his head. _You did nothing wrong, Gil._ "I... I had no choice. That little girl..."

"YOU KILLED MY DALE!"

"She... she was going to kill that little girl. Four years old! Now, she's getting married."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP! YA KILLED HER!" McIntyre wanted to pounce upon the crippled man, the man who he'd crippled, but stopped. He controlled his emotions in a heartbeat and his voice returned to a steady, unemotional tone. "You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. Stand up straight there. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom."

As he looked at McIntyre, Grissom's eyes began to glaze over. He stood up straight reflexively and tried to listen to Gerard's voice in his head. _You did nothing wrong, Gil._ _You did nothing wrong, Gil._ But it was hard as McIntyre continued to say in his steady, monotone voice, "You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. Stand up straight there. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom."

* * *

Sara had the key to Grissom's place in her hand, but didn't need it was the door had been left slightly ajar.

"Grissom!" Warrick shouted. Unlike the last time they entered Grissom's home together, Warrick and Sara moved frantically and independently from room to room. "He's not fucking in here," Warrick said. "Where's Hank?"

As if on cue, they heard the sound of Hank barking. Sara had heard him bark like that once before and knew Jacob McIntyre was close. They looked at one another and bolted out the sliding glass door, which was, just as the front door, suspiciously unlocked. "Hank!" Sara called after the dog who ran to her, jumped on her and then returned to the fence. "Grissom is next door Warrick. We've got to get over there."

"Backup's on the way, Sar," Warrick said, as he ran after Sara through the sliding glass door.

"No! NOW!"

They went to the front door of the residence where Jim Braid, aka Jacob McIntyre, lived and pounded on the door. "JACOB MCINTYRE! LAS VEGAS CRIME LAB. OPEN UP!"

Warrick was about to slam his body against the door in an attempt to open it, but Sara grabbed the door knob before he had a chance. It turned and the door opened slightly. They knew they should wait, but they pulled their weapons from the holsters at their waists and went inside anyway. They worked in tandem clearing room to room and finding no one. Like Grissom's townhouse, McIntyre had a sliding glass door to the back yard.

"There's a shed out there, Sara." Warrick opened the sliding glass door and ran to the shed, with Sara close behind him.

Warrick ran to the door and tried to get it open. But Sara stopped to look through the double-paned window. She looked and Grissom standing straight but swaying as he held up his gun against McIntyre. "Put the gun down, Gil. Please put the gun down," she said hoping her words would somehow reach Grissom.

* * *

Grissom felt frozen as he stood and looked directly into McIntyre's eyes. He tried to listen to anything other than McIntyre's voice. But all he could hear was "You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. Put the gun down. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom."

McIntyre never moved from his spot. He stood still with his arms at his side, and a smile on his face. The second he uttered, "You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. Put the gun down. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom," Grissom put his gun down on the concrete floor. He then hesitantly returned to the standing position.

Sara couldn't tear her stare away from the window, but she said to Warrick, "Open the door. Please open the door." She still looked through the glass as Warrick stopped trying to kick the door in then pulled his gun and shot the doorknob off the door. He then worked to push the door open. McIntyre had jammed a heavy bench against the door.

Grissom didn't flinch at the sound of the gunshot when Warrick shot off the doorknob. He stood as if transfixed, watching the monster from his nightmares.

McIntyre saw Sara staring through the window and heard Warrick entering the shed. The ex-con slyly pushed the button on the device he held in his left palm. Grissom still appeared transfixed as the garage door behind him opened behind him. He simply listened to the words of McIntyre, "You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom. Listen to only my voice. You're a murderer, Gil Grissom."

"FREEZE!" Warrick stepped into the shed with his gun drawn and began walking toward McIntyre. Sara followed close behind Warrick, using his body almost as a shield, but went straight to Grissom's side. Grissom still didn't move and kept his eyes on McIntyre.

Making a universal sign of surrender, McIntyre smiled with his left arm raised in the air and raised his right arm, still in a sling, up in the air as far as possible. He took two more steps toward Grissom. Warrick never let down his gun as he rushed to McIntyre.

"Stop, McIntyre. Don't move a muscle or I'll blow you to kingdom come." Warrick warned as he kept the gun trained on McIntyre.

McIntyre could just about feel Grissom's breath in his face. "Only listen to my voice, Grissom."

"Shut up McIntyre," Warrick said.

"Only listen to my voice, Grissom."

"One more goddamn word, McIntryre..." Warrick went to grab McIntyre's left arm, but McIntyre's eerily calm voice filled the air of the small enclosure.

"Bang Gil Grissom."

For McIntyre, the moment happened in a New York minute. A stunned silence fell, immobilizing everyone but McIntyre, who seemed to have sprouted wings when he ran out of the shed through the open garage door like a bat out of hell.

For Sara, time slowed to an agonizing rate. She watched as Grissom bent down, picked up the gun, and raised his trembling left hand to his stomach. He pressed the gun to his side, let out an soft, but agonized sound, and pulled the trigger. Then the gun fell to the ground. It was followed closely by the collapse of Grissom's own body onto the ground.

As Grissom dropped to his knees, he reached for Sara, who dropped down beside him. She rolled him on his back and urged him to lay still. She took off her jacket and watched as the fresh blood flowed from his wound. She looked up and saw Warrick take an incredulous look at Grissom and then charge out the door. She then tried to staunch the bleeding with compression and her hands quickly covered in blood.

Then, all the sudden, time resumed at a frantic pace. She heard sirens in the background and a car come to a screeching halt just outside. She heard Warrick screaming for an ambulance and something about McIntyre.

"Gris... Focus on me, baby. Look at me."

His eyes seemed wild. But finally he found Sara's face and they stilled on her features. "I didn't want to...," his voice turned into a sob. "What happened?"

Sara could no longer hold her tears. "We'll get you help. Don't move."

"DAMMIT!" His face twisted in pain. "I'm sorry, Sara..."

"Gris, don't talk and don't move. Please, baby." She took his left hand and held it firmly.

Grissom swallowed. "I love...your...hand.."

Sara couldn't stop the sob that escaped her lips. "Just ssshhh, please. I know, Gris. I know."

* * *

McIntyre already had an escape route mapped out when he sped out of the shed. Instead of leaving the shed and running through the front gate, where he heard sirens approaching he hid behind some overgrowth on the side of shed next to the other neighbor's chain link fence. He waited for Warrick to sprint out, stepped on a couple of cement blocks and jumped the fence over into the neighbor's yard.

But once again, McIntyre was foiled by an unknown variable. Unlike the bank job, this time it wasn't Grissom.

This time it was Grissom's dog.

Hank successfully dug a hole from his side of the fence to McIntyre's yard and came out to other side of the fence as Warrick ran out of the yard. Hank barked and ran full speed. His senses knew exactly where his target was. With agility and tenacity, the pooch hurled himself over the four foot fence, with an agility unknown to his species and caught up to McIntyre, quickly taking a bite out of his leg.

McIntyre spun around and screamed in pain. He didn't have a good hold on his gun, but aimed it as best as he could toward Hank and fired. The shot connected somewhere, because Hank stopped fighting and let out a yelp. The dog appeared incapacitated. McIntyre laughed at the downed dog. _I got you, too, ya fucker!  
_  
Shaking his head to clear it, McIntyre took aim with his left arm but was caught off guard when Warrick came behind him, grabbed his injured right arm and swung McIntyre off balance about 45 degrees counterclockwise and forced him to the ground. The uniformed officer who had followed Warrick, kicked the gun out of McIntyre's hand, and then helped Warrick force both arms behind McIntyre's back.

"FUCK!" McIntyre screamed. "You're ripping my fuckin' muscle, ya bastards!"

"Stand him up," Brass called out, as he made his way into the now crowded backyard. He stopped to check on the animal, Hank seemed scratched, but fine. The bullet had grazed his left ear. "Jacob McIntyre, you're under arrest."

McIntyre laughed. "For what? Shooting a dog that was attacking me, or watching some crazy mother fuckin' murderer shoot himself in the gut?"

Warrick grabbed McIntyre's face, hard. "You made Grissom do that to himself, you son-of-a-bitch. You fucking made him do it."

"Prove it," McIntyre said before spitting in Warrick's face.

Warrick stood in front of McIntyre and retrieved a DNA swab from his back pocket as the spittle dribbled down his face. "Something Grissom always taught me," Warrick said as he swabbed McIntyre's spit from his face. "Always be prepared."

"You're under arrest for the murder of Phillip Gerard," Brass said. "And that DNA sample CSI Brown just collected, should cement the case for us, McIntyre."

Brass and the other officer led hand-cuffed McIntyre away, while Warrick stayed with Hank. The animal's body shivered in pain as Warrick calmly ran his hand over the dog's brown coat along the spine, over and over. "Shhhh, boy. It'll be okay. Shhh. Come on, let's go check on your daddy."

* * *

The only people who were allowed to enter the shed were two paramedics. Sara allowed the EMTs to work, but would not leave the shed.

The paramedics lifted Grissom up onto the stretcher quickly. Sara never lost a step as they wheeled him to the ambulance. After pushing the stretcher up and through the doors, one paramedic went to the driver's seat, as the other moved behind the stretcher.

"Move over," Sara said. "I'm going with him."

He looked at her with sympathy, but her CSI vest and holstered gun gave the paramedic enough evidence that she wouldn't take "no" for an answer. He then spoke into the microphone, "48 year old white male, GSW to abdomen. BP 98/45, rapid pulse. Blood flowing freely although pressure has been applied since initial injury. ETA four minutes."

She held his left hand laced with her own tightly for those four minutes.

* * *

TBC

* * *


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: We don't own CSI, but we did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night...LOL.

A/N: Sorry to everyone who read the last chapter. You thought the fluff was going to win out over the violence? Hehehe!

* * *

Chapter 22

* * *

"He's a fortunate man," said Philip Beck, the ER physician who had treated Grissom barely a week earlier, as he approached the same group of people he'd spoken to then. "For someone who shot himself, he picked the perfect way to do it without being fatal."

"You still had him in there for hours," Nick said.

"He did shoot himself in the the torso. His actions weren't without damage," Beck said. Using his hands, the physician demonstrated what he was saying as he explained, "But it seemed he held the gun in his left hand and pushed the muzzle into the side halfway between the hip and ribs and shot straight back. By doing so, he avoided hitting his spleen, colon or stomach. He missed his ribs, so the bullet didn't ricochet around inside him."

"He knew what he was doing," Catherine said.

"You'd need to have extensive knowledge of the human body to do that," Beck said, incredulously.

"He used to be a coroner in L.A., knows his anatomy pretty well, I'd say," Catherine retorted. She smiled and looked at the gang. "He was fighting McIntyre even through hypnotic suggestion. Way to go, Gil."

Beck didn't comprehend what the woman was saying, but the comment seemed to relieve the tension enormously among the group. "He'll be in recovery. Unfortunately, I believe you know where that is."

"Can I... we see him soon," Sara piped up.

"I believe so," Beck said. He offered a smile before the next comment, in hopes of relieving some tension. "You know, as soon as he woke up in recovery, he began talking nonstop. We have no idea about what, all of it seems rather random. I did hear him mention something about his hand, so I reassured him his fixators on his right hand looked fine. But I have a feeling he might have something important to say."

The doctor gave the group a polite nod, and made his exit. They looked at one another and decided to head up to recovery. Catherine and Greg stood on either side of Sara and walked with her. When Catherine arrived at the hospital, she had a change of clothes for Sara, who graciously accepted them and put her own, soiled clothes in an evidence bag.

As they walked to recovery, Catherine put her hand on Sara's shoulder then released it and Greg put his hand on her back and rubbed gentle circles there. Sara looked at them both and gave a quick, soft smile, but stayed distant. Both her colleagues understood.

* * *

It was so quiet, for a second he thought he lost his hearing again. Then he heard the beeping of a machine, and his own groan and he tried to move. His right hand hurt, but his stomach felt like fire.

He opened his eyes, looked to his left, and there she was, smiling. He smiled back. She lifted up, just slightly, enough for him to see that their hands were clasped. He offered another smile.

"That's nice," he said. "Your hand looks good."

"You said you loved it earlier today."

Grissom gave a tired, but slightly confused look. "I said I love your hand?"

Sara nodded.

Grissom shook his head "no" and looked in pain. "I was mistaken. I should have said, 'I love you.'"

And with that he went back to sleep. He definitely had something important to say after all.

* * *

Grissom's road to recovery would be a long one. Physically, his body was taken to the limit, but his mind was pushed even further. While in the hospital, Grissom fell into a severe depression. When his friends would visit, he grew distant. His mind focused on more than just the graphic images that plagued him. When McIntyre created the suggestion in Grissom, he played on Grissom's sense of personal justice and made the seasoned investigator feel like a complete failure for all the crimes that went unsolved or had tragic resolutions.

Grissom knew McIntyre was the one who killed Terri Miller, Debbie Marlin and his own, beloved mother, but he could not shake feeling responsibility as well.

"You're going to need professional help through this," Catherine said to him once while visiting her recuperating friend.

He stared at nothing in the opposite direction. "I know."

"Look at me, Gil," Catherine waited until her friend turned to look at her. "No one sees you the way you are seeing yourself right now. And that's especially true for Sara. She'll be there for you, and so will we. Please just let her. Let us."

"Regret... Catherine ... I feel so many regrets for so many things..."

"I've known you a long time and you've always been a just and kind man. You've also occasionally been an asshole." The comment eased some tension and sadness. "You fought McIntyre this long. You have to keep fighting. You understand? Jacob McIntyre will not take our flaky entomologist away from us."

They stayed quiet for some five minutes then heard a knock on the door. "I bet that's her now."

But it was Greg. "I've come bearing gifts." He stood opposite of Catherine on Grissom's right side. "Hey boss." He held out the open paper sack under Catherine's nose. "Madam. Try one."

Catherine took out and gave a complete look of disgust. "Greg, that's disgusting."

She went to throw away the chocolate-covered grasshopper until both men protested by saying, "Don't waste it," in unison.

Catherine held her hand out for Grissom to take it. He did reach for it, but held back, and to Catherine's surprise, he did so with a smile. "I'm not sure I can eat the whole thing. We could share it, Cath."

"Pop that thing in your mouth and eat it in one bite."

"I could suck off the chocolate and give you the rest?"

Greg snorted. Catherine did not. "Gil, take this thing out of my hand and make it disappear before I smash it with my foot."

He did. For a moment he was happy. Content. Just a flaky entomologist visited by his flaky friends.

* * *

If he was honest with himself, Jacob McIntyre would say the excruciating pain in his right arm and shoulder was worth it. When Warrick Brown grabbed his arm after he had shot Grissom's dog, the man used such force that the deltoid muscle was completely severed. McIntyre's arm would have to go through several surgeries. After two days hospitalized, he was transferred to the prison's infirmary, but he would probably find himself in the hospital in no time secondary to his impending surgeries.

But when he thought about his predicament, he had nothing but a satisfied smile on his face. He accomplished his task. He'd made Philip Gerard suffer and pay with his life. And he made Gil Grissom suffer and pay with his sanity. The hypnotic suggestion worked. McIntyre had felt confident about the power of the suggestion when he trained Grissom's mind to abide by it.

Before disposing of Gerard's body, McIntyre had used hypnotism to plant the negative suggestions in Grissom's head. He'd trained Grissom's mind to believe that he was a disgrace to the human race. A worthless murderer who deserved to die by his own hand at McIntyre's command.

McIntyre put Grissom's unconscious body from the _parilla _torture device to a wheeled office chair. He transported Grissom to the man's own bed and then worked on his prisoner's unconscious mind as he had previously when Grissom had been bound by duct tape to the _parilla_. As McIntyre sat in the desk chair, that was still somewhat bloody from moving Grissom from the living room to the bedroom, he had to make sure Grissom could filter every other distraction and listen only to the sound of McIntyre's voice. The mantra of "You're a murderer, Gil Grissom" became Grissom's entrance toward the tunnel of McIntyre's hypnotic command. Once voiced, McIntyre could sandwich simple suggestions between the mantra.

And the apex of the command would be Grissom picking up the gun, placing it upon his stomach and pulling the trigger. Under hypnotic suggestion, McIntyre set the trigger for Grissom to do those actions: Three words... _bang Gil Grissom_.

When Grissom shot himself in the stomach, McIntyre hoped to see Grissom's life drain from his very body, only the shot wasn't fatal. McIntyre made one "error in judgment": McIntyre theorized in hindsight that because Grissom's right hand was useless during the time of suggestion, his aim would be compromised since he used his left hand.

_Next time, I'll make sure I pull the finger nails off the left hand,_ McIntyre mercilessly thought.

As McIntyre lay propped upon his bed with his left hand cuffed to the side of the bed, he saw a haggard, tall, young man situating himself in a reclining chair about three feet from McIntyre's bed. A nurse told that prisoner to sit there and wait for his medication. And unlike McIntyre,the good-looking Hispanic young man was not cuffed as he sat reclined with his eyes closed.

McIntyre looked over and quickly accessed the pretty boy. The youthful, brown-tinged skin served in contrast to his graying, thin hair and dull eyes. McIntyre assumed the young man was a hardened criminal, not a sick teen. As the two sat in silence, McIntyre's curiosity got the best of him. "So who put you away?"

The prisoner turned his head and looked at McIntyre with tired and skeptic eyes. "Excuse me?"

McIntyre smiled and tried to turn toward the man. "How did you get here in prison? What bastard put ya behind bars?"

The prisoner shook his head. "I am here because of my own actions."

"Ain't that the truth," McIntyre said. His evil laugh made the young man throw him another scathing look.

"What is so funny?"

"What's funny? Karma, that's fer sure," McIntyre couldn't contain his sheer glee. He wanted to revisit and brag about what he did to Grissom so bad he could taste it. "Let me ask you something, there. You know how you fantasize about torturing someone who did ya wrong? You imagine that person's life in your hands and you can crush him at your own discretion?"

The prisoner's face was devoid of emotion. He neither answered McIntyre nor directed him to continue, but McIntyre was on a roll and enjoyed recounting the fun of Grissom's torture.

"Gil Grissom was that man to me, fer sure. Fuckin' CSI. He is nothing but a fuckin' murderer who deserved to be punished," McIntyre continued. "And, oh, I got him. I abused him physically, mentally, emotionally. His sanity is still in question. And all it took was fer me to say three little words to put his life in jeopardy and make him look insane. I hope his survival allows that torture to continue every day of that worthless bastard's life."

The prisoner's face twisted to display some internal rage. "Gil Grissom? What did you do to him?"

McIntyre recognized that look and figured the young man might have known Grissom. So, in detail, he told him every act he did to violate Grissom physically, emotionally and psychologically.

"Did you kill him?" the prisoner asked, politely.

"Not this time," McIntyre said, completely satisfied with himself. "He'll be in pain for the rest of his life. I suppose that's punishment enough for a bastard like that, don't you think?"

The young man didn't deem it necessary to answer. McIntyre simply shrugged off the silence and punched his call button in hopes of receiving some nice painkillers.

A nurse came to the young prisoner's bed with a bag of liquid saline for the IV that hung on a pole behind the chair. The male nurse then attached the line into a portal on the young man's chest. The nurse, whose last name was Henderson, reached for the vial to administer it into the IV when McIntyre interrupted the nurse's work and demanded pain killers. Before McIntyre became too loud and became violent, the exasperated staffer left to get the medicine for him.

Henderson returned shortly and gave McIntyre his oral painkillers. He went back to his original patient. The staffer was familiar with the young man, and while he was polite, things were all business as he completed attaching the IV into the young man's port. He looked for the vial of medicine and the accompanying syringe, but didn't see them anywhere. He didn't remember administering the meds.

Henderson looked to the cancer-ridden patient, "Did I already give you the meds?"

"Yes, Mr. Henderson. You shot me up and then put the vial and syringe into that bio-hazard container." He pointed to the container located nearest to him.

The nurse accepted his answer. After all, the young man had been in the facility for a long time and even though he was a criminal having murdered someone, the nurse felt he could trust him. "If this batch makes you any sicker than the last one, call me immediately."

"I will. Thank you, Mr. Henderson." And with that, the nurse left.

* * *

Later that evening, McIntyre awoke to find the young prisoner looming over him. Before he could say anything to him, the edge of his sheet became forcefully lodged deep inside his mouth, too far for McIntyre to spit out. Because his good arm was restrained and he couldn't move his bad arm, McIntyre thrashed as much as he could but couldn't get the gag out.

The young man retrieved the missing vial of medicine and syringe from under the cushion of the recliner chair.

Daniel Lopez had lied to his nurse earlier. He'd stolen the vial and syringe. McIntyre watched helplessly as Daniel expertly extracted liquid from the vial and seamlessly injected it into McIntyre's antibiotic IV.

"This a powerful dose of Adriamycin, my chemo drug. When you are in prison, many times you don't get the state-of-the-art drugs that don't have side effects," Daniel said evenly. "This drug does."

"You told me what brought you here. Now I will tell you what lead me here," Daniel said as he stared into McIntyre's face. "I killed my little sister, Alycia. I took her life, and instead of turning myself in, I turned into a coward. My whole family covered for me. They put my life ahead of Alycia's, as they always had. Only Gil Grissom cared for my sister. He found her body. He cared for her. He waded through our lies to find the truth about her. No one had ever thought of Alycia as an individual, not even me, until Mr. Grissom came along."

Daniel took a moment to grieve for his sister as he disposed of the vial and hypodermic needle in the bio-hazard box by his bed. "I've injected you with a drug that causes many negative side effects -- nausea, vomiting, mucositis, and in severe cases where there might be an allergic reaction fever, bleeding, shortness of breath, and even possible cardiac arrest."

McIntyre began to convulse. Daniel removed the sheet from McIntyre's mouth and watched McIntyre vomit upon himself four times. The man groped for his call button, which Daniel conveniently placed on the floor.

"You aren't on monitors, so there will be no attending nurse rushing here," Daniel added.

"Whatcha thinking, eh?" McIntyre said in a hoarse, hushed voice.

"Mr. Grissom did not deserve the pain you caused him," Daniel said.

"What the fuck do you know? You little shit, I didn't deserve the pain he caused me. He took the life of..." Bile exploded from McIntyre's mouth. Daniel kept a safe distance away from the man, so his vomit never sprayed on him. "What? You taking mercy on Grissom by killing me?"

Daniel picked a pencil from his word search book. "This isn't a mercy killing," he said as he shoved the vomit-stained sheet roughly back into McIntyre's mouth. "It's an execution."

Daniel, weak from his condition and the situation, went back to his recliner chair. He laid down and made the sign of the cross. He prayed for his soul, and of the man who continued to violently convulse in the bed next to him. Then immediately fell asleep, secure in his faith and the knowledge that he'd performed a good deed.

* * *

Jacob McIntyre was dead before police could question him about Terri Miller's disappearance and the video that might have chronicled her murder. Upon analyzing the DVD, Archie Johnson was able to identify the motel from a notepad and hotel toiletries in the bathroom. Coupling that with the evidence and the timeline of Miller's disappearance, some three weeks ago when she didn't return from her Guatemala trip, they were able to ascertain where Miller was killed.

The room did not yield any evidence, but the dumpster at the Chinese restaurant that shared an alley with the north side of the hotel did. Remnants of human blood were found in the dumpster and a CSI found a torn piece of clothing, perhaps a piece of her underwear, that was stained with blood, which DNA later revealed to be the blood of Terri Miller.

McIntyre had most likely dumped Terri Miller's in the dumpster. But her body was never recovered, and most likely would never be.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: I hope you found McIntyre's demise worth the whole ride of the story. That was the first scene written for the story, and we evolved 'Fatal Impressions' around it. Let us know what you think. - JBCC

Only one more chapter...:) cdc


	23. Epilogue

Disclaimer: Okay, for the last time, we don't own CSI.

A/N: This is it. It's a long chapter. I'm actually nervous about posting this :-) Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 23

* * *

The sound of the plate shattering on the floor made a resounding crack.

Seven days after the shooting, Grissom invited Sara for lunch at his townhouse. Since his right hand was still immobilized, he ordered take-out from one of his favorite restaurants. Instead of using paper plates, Grissom opted to serve the meal on the china his mother had insisted upon him having for occasions such as this.

The meal progressed nicely with some idle chit-chat between the two and when they'd begun to put the dishes up, one fell out of Grissom's grasp and it shattered on the floor.

Sara knelt down to pick the pieces up without thinking about it. When she stood up to find Grissom leaning heavily against the counter hyperventilating.

"Gris, what is it?" Sara knew he was having a flashback of some sort.

Grissom returned from the hospital three days before with a diagnosis that included Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. His recovery included seeing a therapist four times a week. The therapist warned things would get worse before the they get better as Grissom would struggle with depression, guilt and flashbacks.

After he got his breathing somewhat under control, Grissom felt ashamed and tried to walk away. But as he did, he knocked his right hand against the counter. The pain jolted through his body. "GODDAMMIT!"

"STOP! Stop trying to leave!" Sara yelled as she grabbed for him. "Would you just tell me what is going on? What do you see, Gris?!"

The pain and emotion caused Grissom's face to become beet red and when he spoke, his tone had a fiery intensity. "WHY IS IT SO IMPORTANT FOR YOU TO KNOW? CAN'T YOU FIGURE IT OUT! I DON'T WANT TO TELL YOU!"

"Why?!" Sara questioned, her voice hurt and indignant. "You think I can't understand? You don't trust me? I'M TRYING TO FUCKING HELP YOU!"

"THEN LEAVE ME ALONE AND DON'T FUCKING ASK!"

They stared at each other, both heaving for breath. Grissom held his injured hand cradled in his opposite hand and his ribs ached from yelling at Sara. She knew he was physically and mentally hurting, and it was painful to witness. Sara didn't know if he wanted help or if she should just go away. This was not the first time something like this happened. It wasn't easy.

"You know what? I do get it. OK. I get it," Sara said as she gathered her purse. "If you need... never mind...you know what? I can't take this shit. Goodbye, Gil."

For a long while, Grissom just stood there holding his hand as he watched Sara walk out the door. He continued to stand dumbstruck as he heard her car pull away.

She went back to her apartment having driven around aimlessly for a very long time after she'd left Grissom's house. Her tears had dried, but she was sure they would start again at any moment. She sat on her couch and for 45 minutes debated whether to get up to retrieve the remote for her music player.

The phone rang just as she'd decided that she really didn't want to listen to music, and she checked the caller ID. It was Grissom; she shook her head and went to her bedroom, where she changed into in a tank top and shorts, then sat on the couch to lace her running shoes.

Her phone rang again, prompting her to check the caller ID. Grissom again. Nothing good would come out of her mouth if she talked to him now. She needed to focus and calm down, so she left the apartment.

But when she reached the top of the last flight of stairs she had no choice but to think about him. Because there he was on the fifth step, left arm with a death grip on the railing, trying to climb up the stairs.

Sara ran down the stairs and went to his side. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I tried to call up your apartment to ask for the code to work the elevator, but you didn't answer," Grissom said as Sara gently led him down the five steps it took him several minutes to climb. "I figured you didn't hear the phone... or you didn't want to talk to me."

"I heard the phone," she said softly and honestly. "Tell me you didn't drive here."

"I took a cab. There are a lot of potholes on your street."

Sara understood the cryptic nature of the comment and rubbed his back as they waited for the doors of the elevator to open. They said nothing more on the ride up, or when Sara opened the door to her apartment and helped him inside and onto the couch. She gestured for him to stretch out, which he did. She went to the kitchen, got a glass of cold water, walked back to Grissom and placed it on a coaster on the end table close to the couch.

Grissom stared at the ceiling and Sara looked in his direction, but her gaze fell upon the wall behind him. Once again she debated looking for the music remote when she noticed he was looking at her.

Her eyebrows raised slightly, offering him the invitation to explain.

"When the plate shattered in pieces... I had a case where a 12-year-old boy was killed. His mother used shards from a broken dish to kill him, but not before she slashed his face," Grissom said, his voice cracking as he recalled the memory. "His face and body...," two tears spilled down his cheek, "It was one of the... he showed it to me over and over... I had to tell him about the photo or he would electrocute me... the details behind the case... I hated what had happened... but that photo... it came up so many times."

Immediately at his side, she began running her fingers through his hair, making sure not to touch any of the healing lacerations. She didn't tell him to stop. She didn't tell him it was OK. She just wanted to be there for him.

"I'm sorry, Sara," Grissom said, gathering his resolve. "I didn't want to... it's so hard to talk about this... but when you left... I'm sorry I made you leave. ... With you gone... nothing is worse than you not being near me."

"Can you sit up?"

He nodded and she helped him sit upright. Her arms were around him as she instinctively knew which spots on his body where she could touch without inflicting pain or injury. She held him as best she could considering all his aliments.

"Thank you, Gil," she whispered in her ear. "Thank you for coming here to tell me. I appreciate the effort you've made."

It was a moment that changed their relationship.

"Ecklie said..." Sara paused. Did she really want to mention this? ... _Yes. I do_. "Ecklie told me if you and I wanted to start a relationship that he would do his best to deflect any possible backlash from the higher-ups."

Grissom let go of Sara, sat back of the couch and looked at her. She knew his mind was turning over dozens of thoughts, but she didn't want to risk over-talking so she didn't say anything and waited for Grissom.

"When did he say that?"

"During your case. After he saw us at the hospital; that day you wouldn't let go of my hand. What's this obsession with my hand all about?"

"They are beautiful hands," Grissom said. "I'd like it if we were in a relationship. Are you sure you would like to be in one with me?"

She caressed his face. "Why wouldn't I?"

Grissom chuckled sadly. "I'm surprised you would ask that."

"Because you are you?"

"Yeah."

"After all that's happened ... Gil, I don't love you any less," she said. "Can you understand that?"

"Yeah?" With that word, he smiled. She missed that smile, and thought it was pretty remarkable she was responsible for it.

"Yes. Let's do it." Sara added.

When their lips pressed together for the second time, Grissom got to savor the feel and taste of Sara for the first time. The small ounce of regret faded as he allowed Sara full access to his heart.

* * *

"There's a big part of me that is glad Daniel Lopez killed McIntyre."

Grissom hadn't spoken about McIntyre since he'd been shot three weeks ago. Even after learning of McIntyre's fate, Grissom had said nothing. But now as Sara drove him to a required physical therapy appointment, Grissom dropped the bombshell out of the blue.

As he sat in her car, he had in his lap the recently completed final report on McIntyre's death, which Warrick brought to him at his request. While it detailed the drugs in McIntyre's system and cause of death, the report also stated Lopez confessed to killing McIntyre when the man's body was found the next morning. Other than a simple confession of murder, Lopez gave no details of the crime and only added, "Tell Mr. Grissom I am sorry he is in pain." Lopez died three days later due to complications from his cancer.

"Is it awful that I said that?"

Sara swallowed. After his kidnapping, Grissom seemed stripped of the stoic armor she had always associated with him. "It saves you from a trial, Gil. You don't have to worry about him hurting you or anyone you love ever again. Maybe it's a blessing in disguise."

"But I don't see it as merely a disguise," Grissom said dejectedly. "What kind of criminalist does that make me, when my gut tells me that it was justice?"

Sara waited until she was stopped at a light before she answered. She turned to him and said, "A human one."

She reached over to grab his left hand, which always seemed to calm him. He squeezed her hand but looked out his passenger window.

"You know," he said, still looking out the window. "I never realized how ... bathed in pain and death I've been for the last 20 years until ... it all hit me at once. I'm beginning to wonder if I've had enough."

Sara reached the PT clinic, but she stopped short of pulling to the entrance. "Will you let me park the car and walk in with you?"

"OK."

She parked the car and they walked slowly to the center. "Are you thinking of retiring?" Sara asked.

Grissom shrugged. "I'm not sure."

"What happened... what McIntyre did to you... I just don't want you to do that because of him, Gil. I don't want him to take your livelihood from you," Sara said as she stood in the elevator with Grissom. She felt his left hand go to the familiar part of the small of her back.

"He might have taken that from me," Grissom said honestly. "I'm just grateful he didn't take you."

* * *

The vet said Hank wouldn't have any lingering difficulties after suffering the gun shot wound. The bullet McIntyre had fired had merely grazed his left ear, leaving a singed area of skin that would remain bald.

Grissom said Hank looked distinguished, while Sara lavished much attention and love on the dog. She ran with him on a daily basis and he never lost a step on her.

The two humans had their fights and standard arguments any couple would have. His anxiety would bare its ugly head from time to time and issues of trust would hamper them. He felt like he was a burden to her and his nightmares and flashbacks continued. But Sara had nightmares of her own. She felt conflicted about her own feelings and fears.

Yet, small moments made them realize they were moving forward, together.

While Sara drove Grissom to physical therapy and sometimes stayed and watched as the certified hand specialist put Grissom through the paces, Grissom went to his mental health counseling sessions three times a week alone, sometimes not even allowing Sara to drive him.

It was five weeks after he was shot, and Grissom was scheduled to return to work the next week. He asked if she minded coming with him to his mental health appointment, which she immediately agreed to do. Then he surprised her when she pulled up to the door of the office. "You're not parking the car? Aren't you coming in with me?"

"You mean inside the office?"

"That's what I meant," Grissom said. "I'm sorry. I was asking you if you want to come with me to the session. My therapist had been talking about couples counseling, but if that makes you uncomfortable..."

_Typical Grissom. Still have to decipher the code sometimes._ Sara put the car into drive. "No. Babe. I want to come with you."

He had talked to his therapist about Sara and their relationships: the one that lasted seven years and the new one that was a month old. The therapist asked if he would like Sara to share a session with him, which Grissom agreed after having been asked four times. The therapist then arranged for a longer appointment for the couple.

They both were expected to share their feelings and without much notice, Sara found she had plenty to say. As Sara opened up, she realized the attack, their relationship and Grissom's absence at work affected her more than she realized. She admitted while she was at work, she began to make decisions differently.

When Sara and Greg had drawn a case involving a death at a mental health facility, Sara asked Sophia to trade cases with her. She never voiced the feeling to anyone, but Sara didn't want to face the facility that might open the wounds to her past without Grissom with her. It was not a feeling she was proud of, for she thought she was putting her own personal needs before her job and she was unable to do something without someone else's support. But, for some reason, she felt she made the right decision.

"Do you feel ashamed about that decision?" the therapist asked.

"Some," Sara said.

"You shouldn't," Grissom added.

"Do you feel not going hampered your job or the investigation?"

Sara thought about that before answering. The job got done, just as it would have if someone else traded a case with her for some unknown reason. "No. It didn't. I just... never thought of my needs over the job, and that makes me uncomfortable."

"Sara, how would you feel if Gil didn't return to work at the lab?" the therapist asked. "If he looked in a different direction, another career path as it were."

"It would be a shock to my system," Sara said honestly. "I love working with him. We make a great team."

Grissom put a smile on his face upon hearing that statement. Sara smiled back.

"Would you be angry with him?"

"No!" Sara said firmly. "I know he has changed and I understand his feelings. I know what it's like to have those tragic, defining moments."

Sara stopped for a moment and Grissom got closer to her on the couch and held her hand. "I know what it's like to be a victim," she continued. "We have a tough job and I'm beginning to realize that if you don't deal with your own personal issues, ... I don't know... If there are demons following me, I'd be afraid I'd burn out and fade away."

"Gil? What do you think about what Sara just said."

Grissom stayed silent for a short time. The therapist knew he was thinking, "Gil. Did you want to say anything about what she said?"

"Yes. Sara, you're the strongest person I know." Grissom took a moment to look at Sara. "If you ever faded away, so would I."

* * *

A lot of things were discussed during the session. The therapist scheduled other sessions for Grissom alone and for Sara to join him.

While they walked in silence to the car, before Sara could get into the driver's seat, Grissom grabbed her arm and spun her into his arms. "GRIS! You're going to hurt yourself!"

His passionate kiss silenced her protest. He allowed his left hand to go from her face, trail down her neck and rest upon her breast. She moaned into his mouth and put her arms around his neck. They stayed like that until he tried to snake his right arm up to cup her left breast and caught a part of the metal fixator on his shirt.

"Dammit," he cursed.

Sara laughed, but stopped when she noticed he wasn't. "Hey. Hey!" She grabbed his chin. "It's OK. Don't get upset. That was wonderful."

Grissom scoffed. "I can't wait to get these damn things off."

"Oh yeah? What are you going to do when they come off?" Sara asked playfully.

He loved her playfulness. It always lifted his mood. "Well," he said, a glimpse of relaxed nature emerging, a rarity since his kidnapping, "I was thinking, Ms. Sidle..."

He held her close again, and she put her arms around his neck again. "Yes?" she whispered seductively.

He matched her tone in her own ear. "Woody told me there is a rollercoaster marathon at the end of the month."

She unhitched her arms and gave his backside a swat. "Get in the car, Grissom."

He smiled and got in the passenger's seat, "Yes, dear."

Once in the car, Sara said, "Just for that comment, you have take me to Paris."

Grissom became very serious. "Yes, I should, Sara, and I will."

Although Grissom kept the serious look on his face, Sara burst into laughter. "You would do that for me? We could always move there."

Although Sara didn't notice, Grissom tried to formulate the proper response to that comment. But he didn't have a chance as Sara started laughing again. "Nah. I'd probably get bored and want to come back to Las Vegas."

He sighed but smiled.

_We just make it afterall, _she thought.

* * *

Grissom's demeanor improved a bit after an office visit to Dr. Lurie to remove the infernal fixators, a moment Greg marked as significant. After shift on the morning Grissom's fixators were to be removed, Greg offered a gift.

"I call it a 'getting your hand back' gift. Open it." Greg seemed giddy as he stood in front of Grissom's desk.

Three juggling balls and the book "The Mathematics of Juggling" by Burkard Polster. Grissom just shook his head and smiled. Sara, who sat on the edge of Grissom's desk, almost fell down laughing.

"Hey, he might get good at it," Greg joked. "Maybe I could hire him for my next birthday party."

Therapy continued after the fixators were removed. And the day Grissom took his checkbook to therapy became a small moment of truth. "OK, Gil," said one of the therapists. "Let's see what you can do."

Grissom took the pen in his right hand and started by cautiously writing the date with a slow steady hand. He then moved down in a natural motion to the "Pay to the order of" line. On it he carefully lettered, "Trisha Johnson Dalton."

He finished writing the check, tore it neatly out of the checkbook and slipped it into a "Congratulations" Hallmark card Sara had picked up for him. His therapist requested the inside be blank, so Grissom could write a sentiment. Slow and steady, Grissom borrowed the words of the Bard, "Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts" and then wrote a simple, personal closing: "From, Gil Grissom."

"Good job, Gil," the therapist said. "Is she family?"

"No. She's a young woman who taught me a lot about survival."

* * *

Grissom did go back to work as scheduled but only for desk work, he wasn't allowed into the field. He did his job and went home, but there were little things that just didn't feel right to him anymore.

In the layout room, his intensity waned. Procedure seemed to fail him rather than fuel him.

Sara could tell he was on edge, but he kept to himself. She didn't push because she believed his silence at this point, was a matter of self-preservation.

A few weeks after his return to work, circumstances drastically altered Grissom's outlook. The lab received an unusual call in which some possible human intestines were found on the street by a patrolman. Grissom assigned both Nick and Greg to the case even though only one CSI could have handled it.

What he didn't tell them was the fact that his gut told him something about the case didn't feel right. He sent Sara and Sophia alone on another case only because he knew police were all over the scene. Safety seemed to be his greatest concern these days.

While Greg was photographing the evidence, Nick walked back to the SUV to get something in which to place the intestines. He almost immediately turned around to get the keys from Greg when he saw Greg struggling with an attacker. The CSI called for the suspect to halt, who in turn fired in Nick's direction. The patrolman on scene heard the commotion, and came running with weapon in hand to assist. Greg struggled with suspect and the gun discharged hitting Greg in the arm. The officer took a shot and killed the perpetrator.

Delving into the kidnapper's plan after the fact, they discovered some horrific plans the man had for any CSI he would take in an act of revenge. And frighteningly, he didn't care who he captured, and Grissom knew it could have been anyone from the lab. Including Sara.

As Grissom walked to the lab parking lot, he frantically called Sara. "Pick up, Sara. Please pick up." After four rings, he heard her voice, he felt relieved. He quickly explained the situation and she assured him she would finish her processing and meet him at the hospital. He drove with his lights flashing.

Grissom found Greg being examined in the emergency room by a familiar ER physican, Phillip Beck. Greg had seen Grissom at his lowest, but the look on his face when he saw Greg -- his CSI, his student, his friend -- on the examination table gave Greg pause. Grissom looked terrified.

"I'm fine, Grissom. Just a flesh wound. It will just look sexy for the ladies," he said with a smile that disappeared when he felt the large needle used to stitch his arm.

Dr. Beck motioned for Grissom to come inside and he went to Greg's side and patted him on the back. "It's cool, Grissom. Rough night, but we'll make it." Grissom nodded and went to the waiting room, where he found Sara and Nick, who was clearly shaken by the experience. When Greg was released, Grissom took Greg to his self-professed bachelor pad after he was discharged from the ER. And Sara drove the unnerved Nick to his place.

Before going inside the apartment, Greg knocked on Grissom's passenger window. After it was rolled down, Greg put his hand inside and upon Grissom's shoulder. He spoke seriously. "Grissom, no one could have known that would happen. I'm just glad you were watching our backs. Don't worry. We'll be OK."

"Thank you, Greg. Are you sure you're OK?"

"I'm fine. OK?"

"Yeah," Grissom waved at the young man and watched him enter his house.

The next morning as they lay in bed together, Grissom turned toward Sara, his hands gently caressed her face and he burst into tears.

She knew what he wasn't saying. His career as a CSI was over.

It was no longer about solving puzzles or objectively working towards justice. And add to that a feeling of fear that one false move will create a painful outcome, like a coworker and friend getting hurt, and the job had become too much for him to handle.

"I'm sorry... I can't go back."

"Don't apologize," Sara said, as she felt her own tears mix with his. "You did nothing wrong, Gil."

Grissom took a deep breath. "That's what Gerard said to me before he died."

"Well, he was right." She held him tighter.

But Grissom extracted himself. "Sara, what are you doing? I'm an old man who can't hold himself together anymore."

"You've been through hell."

"I used to be able to rely on logic and concentrate on the evidence, the truth," he said. "I've lost that ability. It's not there anymore ... that passion for those things. ... And my emotions... I can't tell you how exposed I feel."

"Your armor is gone."

Grissom sighed. She was right. His forensics armor was gone. But maybe, as he had been discussing with his therapist, it didn't have to be a tragedy. They lay in silence until Grissom ran his right hand through her hair.

Grissom submitted his paperwork to retire the next day, but not before his last case involving a deranged woman from Idaho who decided after losing her life savings on one of the slot machines at the Rampart, to rob an amoured truck. The woman was shot point blank by the guard.

* * *

After his retirement Grissom worked toward two goals: finding a new career and selling his townhouse. The place held too many bad memories. He still had nightmares and anxiety attacks, although their frequency had waned somewhat over the past few weeks, he knew he'd probably suffer with them the rest of his life.

Grissom, still unsure of their burgeoning relationship and how it would fare, sublet a bungalow style house from a friend who had left on sabbatical for three months in Maine.

"Would you care to move in with me?" Grissom had asked Sara as they sat at in the dining room of the house.

"You've only got this place for three months, Gil and the lease on my place doesn't expire until December. I don't know if it would be a good idea, right now."

A prudent decision, Grissom thought, but deep down inside, he hated it.

* * *

A family had been slaughtered and a little girl was missing and teens appeared as the best suspects. Sara tried to get by on false pretenses, but it dredged up too many memories. It was a hard case for Nick, he let the case become personal for him, but it was just as hard for her. She and Nick talked about the case in her room before he retired to his own hotel room. As she stood alone in her room, she called Grissom to check in with him.

A cough came from the other line along with a sleepy, "Sara?"

Where she thought he would be at 3 a.m. she didn't know. She just needed to hear his voice. "Hi. I'm sorry. I just wanted to see what you were doing."

"Juggling." He heard Sara gently laugh. "Don't laugh. This could be my new career," Grissom said in a deep, sleepy voice as he sat up in bed. "Are you OK? I know it's a hard case. You want to talk about it?"

"_Nick's_ having a rough time."

Grissom knew what she was doing. "Well, tell me about it."

She did, and it made her more sad and more frustrated and more ... lonely. "You know, I miss you, Gris. I miss you being here with me."

"I miss you too."

"No, I meant on the job I miss you. Of course, I miss you here with me, but I ... miss working with you. It's not the same without you."

Grissom's heart dropped. He had let her down, again. "Sara..."

Sara picked up on his feelings just a moment too late. "Don't. Don't you feel guilty about that. You did what you needed to do."

"OK."

"I'm going to let you go to sleep."

"Will you sleep?"

"I'm sure I will. I'll see you soon, OK?"

"Yes, dear."

They hung up, and Sara lay in bed. _No one quits their job because a coworker is gone,_ she thought.

The next day, they found the little girl and that's when it hit Sara. The minute she looked into those eyes, she recognized the horrors that little girl must have witnessed. It opened Sara's own wounds. But she assured herself: _Sara Sidle is a tough woman; she will be OK._ _I'm not really burning out.  
_  
When she finally returned home after the case in Lincoln County and was in the process of unlocking her front door, a sudden thought occurred to her: _What happens when a_ case opens old wounds and I won't be OK?

It scared her because she knew what she might do. If things got too tough, if a case hit her too deep, she might just drive away and not return.

Alone.

Then she remembered what Grissom said, "If you faded away, so would I."

She turned around and relocked the door. With nothing but a blank stare she got into her Prius and drove off.

* * *

After hearing the knock, Grissom stopped washing the dishes and walked to the front door while he dried his hands. He looked through the peephole. _Why would she knock?_

"If I ever left, would you come and find me?" Sara asked Grissom.

Grissom rung the dishtowel in his hand nervously. "Sara... are you OK?"

She sighed, closed her eyes and quickly repeated herself. "If I ever left Vegas, would you come and find me?"

"Yes."

_Well, that was easy._

Grissom grabbed her hand and drew her in the house. "You want something to drink?" He asked, as he made his way back to the kitchen.

"If I needed time alone, would you give it to me?"

Grissom said nothing but gave a look that screamed at Sara, "What the hell are you talking about?"

_Oh boy. Not so easy,_ Sara thought. _Be honest._ "I was at my apartment this morning and I was thinking that if things got really hard, really out of control, I might just... disappear," Sara said.

"Wait," Grissom said. "Are you going to leave?"

"No, babe. I'm just thinking out loud. But this job.... sometimes I just want to get away from ... everything."

"Everything? Including me?"

"Well, you are part of my everything, yes ... but ... But what happens if I can't handle something? Are we equipped for that? Look how we dealt with living arrangements. We had no idea what to say to each other," she said. "This case was brutal, but it could get worse. What if I want to leave Vegas? I'm not saying I'm going to, but what if I do? I don't want to leave you, but I know Vegas is your home..."

"No, Sara," Grissom answered. "You are."

She smiled and she felt herself welling up. "Gil, does anything I said make sense?"

"No... and yes," Grissom said, which drew a look of confusion. "It doesn't make sense because sometimes through the job we... you ... you witness things that defy logic, compassion and humanity. But I know exactly what you are saying, Sara. And all I can say is I will always be there for you. You're right, sometimes we're terrible at communicating with one another, so I hope I'm doing better now by saying if you talk to me, I will listen."

"I feel like a child looking for my security blanket," Sara said, a hint of shame in her voice.

"You're a woman who needs the love from a man who loves her with all his heart," Grissom said. "You deserve more than I can ever give you, but would you be willing to move in with me, so we could try?"

She looked at him. "Yes," she said as she approached him warily, "So, if I needed some time alone, would you trust me enough to let me?"

Grissom shrugged and pursed his lips. "I'd have to."

"What does that mean?" Sara suddenly felt on the defensive.

"It means I'd have to. What choice do I have? That's what a good husband would do."

Speechless. Grissom looked at Sara, at her look of absolute wonder. He smiled, kissed her forehead and resumed washing the dishes.

Sara went to his side and dried the dishes he washed. Not much was said for the rest of the day, until they lay nude curled together in the cramped full-sized bed.

Sara let out a happy sigh. "I always knew Hank and I were meant to live together."

"And what about the other part of the equation?" Grissom asked softly.

"Technically, you didn't ask and I didn't answer," Sara replied. And before he could get a word out of his mouth, she continued. "But yes, I'll marry you."

* * *

One weekend Grissom asked Sara if she would like to see his hometown and they headed off with just the clothes on their backs and Hank happily panting out the back window. Before heading beachside, they drove to the Marina del Rey cemetery.

They silently walked together and listened as the winter breeze that flowed through the trees complemented the soft sounds from a few birds. Grissom knelt on one knee in the freshly-trimmed grass. He stayed like that for a very long time as he signed with his hands.

After 20 minutes, Sara walked up behind him, gently placed her hand on his shoulder and moved it slowly to the center of his back, rubbing soothing circles.

"There were so many times I talked about you with her," Grissom said to Sara as he kept his eyes on the headstone that read "Beloved Mother." "She wanted to meet you."

"I would have loved that," Sara said.

"She would have loved you." His voice reflecting his melancholy. "She died because of me."

"No. She died because of him."

Sara helped him up and kept her arm protectively around his waist. "Are you ready to go?"

Grissom nodded his head, but didn't move. Sara took a step back and allowed him another moment.

Grissom stared at his mother's grave. Before he turned to leave, he signed, "I'm sorry."

* * *

_THE END _

_

* * *

  
**Chauncey's end notes**: _

_Thanks to everyone who has read this story. And I'd especially like to thank Doris Mock for her help in the naming of Jacob McIntyre and Dale Danley and give a shout out to Mossley and Joan Powers, who as writers in the CSI fandom, inspired me to attempt my hand at writing and both graciously allowed me to bother them with the same pesky question that dealt with a very minor point in this story. _

_I'd also like to thank Margaret and Esther for their fine work in pulling this story together but mostly I'd like to send a heart-felt hug to my writing partner Jean, for soldiering on with this story when I was unable even to remember my own name. It's been real and it's been fun, but writing this story has definitely been an uphill battle all the way and I wouldn't have had it any other way. _

_Oh, and please don't ask for a sequel...you'll get a resounding 'NO!' :) _

_**Jean's end notes**: _

_I had so many issues with this piece, that I almost killed it. But a lot of thanks goes to Esther who read the first 9 chapters and said, "You have to continue this story." So I did, knowing that if Chauncey didn't like something, it would not continue. When she was gone, I missed her and so did the story, which is why nothing posted until both our voices were present in chapters. With what she went through, I couldn't have been more inspired with the work she produced when she came back. She did wonders with the medical stuff and she gave Woody a voice again. And it's cool to suggest, "Can Sara wash Grissom's hair?" and get the result she gave us. I'm proud of Chauncey, and I'm fortunate to call her my writing partner. I hope she finds that feeling mutual. _

_And to my dad, I say thank you for everything, including never discouraging me about becoming a writer even though writers make no money and math was my best subject. Like I told you that final day, you were a good father._


End file.
